


In the Bleak Midwinter

by ImpishTubist



Series: Memory [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Kidfic, Language, OCs - Freeform, Serious Illness, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes, the biggest lies - the most important lies - are the ones we tell those closest to us.</i>
</p><p>Five years after moving abroad, Sherlock and Victor return to England for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victor

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after “A Memory That Never Forgets.” I’d recommend reading that one first. Written before S3, and therefore non-compliant with everything that comes after TRF. I've taken some liberties with the illness described within, with some various legalities, and with how wedding ceremonies occur in the UK. If that's going to bother you, avoid this.
> 
> This fic has been fully written, and I will be posting the rest of the chapters as time allows. Title comes from the Christmas carol of the same name.

There was something disconcerting about traveling on Christmas Eve.

They had flown out of Dulles in the early hours of the morning, after clearing security in record time and finding their gate nearly deserted. The plane itself had been half-full and the atmosphere subdued, and when they arrived at Heathrow, it was to discover that most of the airport was empty. Most of the holiday travelers, it seemed, had already reached their destinations.

The roads were empty, and the journey to Norfolk took just over two hours. Victor had intended to drive, but Sherlock had taken one look at him, said, “ _No_ ,” and plucked the keys for the rental car from his fingers before he could protest. 

It was a good idea, in hindsight. Victor had worked a double shift the day before, and they had left for the airport as soon as he got off work. He hadn’t slept in going on thirty-six hours, now - planes tended to make him more uneasy than anything else. He couldn’t sleep on flights like Sherlock did. 

He fell asleep before they pulled out of the car park, and woke up to Sherlock singing along with the radio. 

Victor kept very still, knowing that Sherlock would stop the moment he realised he was being observed. He probably didn’t even consciously register that he was singing; his words were absent and distant, and when Victor cracked open an eye, he saw that Sherlock was frowning in concentration.

They were almost at Buckland Hall, then. It was the only portion of this journey that gave Sherlock any sort of pause, and that was because the house and its drive were obscured by copious amounts of trees. 

“I know you’re awake,” Sherlock said suddenly, “so you might as well help me find this damn house.”

His voice was light, despite his words, and Victor chuckled. He straightened and cracked his neck. 

“I didn’t want you to stop,” he admitted sheepishly. Sherlock’s mouth quirked, even though he didn’t shift his eyes from the road. The carol playing on the radio ended on one final, melancholy note that hung heavily between them for several seconds. 

Victor swallowed hard, and he placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee. He had never given too much thought to Christmas, and it had never been a particularly poignant holiday for him, but this year was different. It was his first time visiting his childhood home on Christmas itself in over twenty years. He had largely avoided the house - and his father - after his mother’s death. She had died when he was twenty-five, but Victor still felt her absence acutely. 

And lately, it seemed as though everything was making him sentimental. 

“Victor,” Sherlock prompted, and he snapped out of his daze.

“Sorry,” he said, squeezing Sherlock’s knee. “You’re coming up on the drive. It’s going to be on your left, next to the red oak with the scar on its trunk from a lightning strike.”

Sherlock slowed down, and even with Victor’s instructions he nearly missed the head of the drive. It wasn’t surprising; even Victor had a tendency to miss the drive, and he had grown up here. 

They turned into the drive, and Victor’s heart rate kicked up a few notches. He drew a deep breath, telling himself that this was ridiculous. He was just coming home to see his father, and to see Timothy. There would be other people there, yes, but he didn’t have to interact with them if he didn’t want to. 

But he couldn’t completely avoid them, and after decades of denying that they existed, let alone played an important role in his father’s life, this wasn’t going to be as easy as he kept pretending to himself. 

There were three other cars already parked on the lawn, safely off the drive and to the left of the front entrance. Sherlock pulled up next to the car on the end and killed the engine. Victor let out a slow breath.

“Too late to go to Barcelona?” he joked weakly. 

“Never,” Sherlock said seriously, and Victor let out a soft laugh. Sherlock would have turned the car around and taken them back to the airport right then and there if Victor had requested it of him, and that thought was comforting. They were here only because Victor realised that he needed to stop avoiding his father’s new family - especially now. But they would only stay as long as Victor was willing, and Sherlock would never ask that he do something out of social convention. 

“Come on,” Victor said. He took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it. “Forget the lot of them. Let’s just go see our boy.”

They got out of the car and opened the boot. Victor grabbed his bag and then handed Sherlock his, and he was just about to reach for the presents they had brought as well when a booming voice said, “Victor!”

William Trevor was striding towards them, a grin on his face and his arms outstretched. He was a large man, taller than Victor by two inches, which meant that he had almost a head on Sherlock. He was broad-shouldered and jovial, and he sported a full head of white hair. He had once been an athletic man, and even though he was now in his sixties, he still carried traces of that athlete in his frame and face. 

“Hello, son,” William greeted warmly when he reached them.

“Hi, Dad,” Victor said, stepping gratefully into his arms. Despite their differences over the years, Victor still thought the world of his father, and the decision to move as far away as they had hadn’t been an easy one to make. 

Father and son broke apart eventually, and William turned to Sherlock.

“I’m glad you two were able to make it out,” he said, shaking Sherlock’s hand. 

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” Victor said regretfully. “I couldn’t get off work any earlier than yesterday.”

They picked up their bags, and William helped them carry the presents. Together, the three of them trudged up to the house. 

“Don’t be sorry,” William told him. “Timothy wasn’t able to get out here until yesterday evening, anyway. He had exams, and then the snow made driving difficult. He eventually caught a ride with Katherine and her family.”

“I can’t remember the last time we had this much snow here at Christmas,” Victor said, surveying the white-tipped trees and the glazed grounds of his father’s estate. At least five centimeters had fallen recently, on top of the existing snowfall from a few weeks back. 

“The boys are enjoying it. I’m sure you’ll be roped into a snowball fight or two before your time here is up,” William said with a smile. “Come on, you two, inside. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

Victor grimaced inwardly at that reminder, but he gave his father a bland smile and walked into the house. They shed their coats and shoes, and William told them they would be in Victor’s old bedroom.

“I’ll take the presents to the tree,” he said, accepting the gifts Sherlock and Victor had been carrying. “You two go and get settled. We’re in the main room when you’re finished. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

Victor led the way up two flights of stairs to his old bedroom, which appeared relatively unchanged, which was slightly disconcerting. The furniture was different than the pieces he had grown up with - a new four-poster, a new desk, and three new bookcases were set up around the room - but the placement of the items had remained the same. 

"Looks the same," Sherlock commented as he set down his bags. He had visited Buckland Hall once over twenty years ago, back when they were still at university together. 

"Yeah, Dad's not one for change," Victor said. He contemplated this for a moment and then added, under his breath, "Kind of an irony, when you think about it."

They both washed up and changed, as they had been traveling for well over twelve hours now, six of which had been spent confined to a plane with dozens of other people.

“Don’t you fall asleep on me,” Victor warned from the adjoining bathroom, talking around the toothbrush in his mouth. He caught sight of Sherlock flopping down on the bed out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not facing them alone.”

“Calm yourself,” Sherlock said dryly. “I’m just closing my eyes.”

“I’m sure.”

A soft knock on the door interrupted whatever Sherlock had been about to say in reply, and he hauled himself up off the bed with a groan to go answer it. Victor rinsed out his mouth, and he was drying his face on a towel when he heard a cheerful, “Hey, Sherlock!” from a very familiar voice.

He came out of the bathroom to see Timothy and Sherlock pull apart after a brief hug, and Timothy turned to him. 

“Hello, Tim,” Victor greeted happily, and then he gave a soft grunt as at least twelve stone of solid teenage muscle collided with him, pulling him into a tight hug. “Oh, it’s good to see you, too, buddy. God. Look at you.”

He pulled away to look Timothy over. The boy hadn’t grown in height since September, but he had definitely filled out over the past few months. He was no longer whippet-thin. Now, he was showing signs of a sturdy build. 

“William said you were here. I didn’t want to wait until you came down. Er. Sorry.”

Victor ruffled Timothy’s tawny hair and then gestured to the bed. “Don’t worry about it. Come on, sit down. We’re just washing up. Talk to us for a bit. You can keep Sherlock awake.”

Sherlock scowled, though he discreetly pinched Victor’s arse as Victor turned to walk over to his bag and Timothy perched on the bed. He then stretched out on the bed, placing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

“Tired?” Timothy teased. Sherlock snorted. 

“Technically, we’ve been traveling all night,” he said. “And that was after Victor pulled a double shift at the station.”

“We’re a bit beat, but don’t worry about it,” Victor put in. “We’re glad to be here.”

“We’re glad to see _you_ ,” Sherlock corrected. “I believe we both could have done without the family reunion.”

“Sherlock,” Victor scolded lightly, though it was true.

“Yeah, things are a bit tense already,” Timothy admitted. “I don’t think Sarah likes you, Victor.”

“Oh?” Victor had never interacted much with Gloria’s youngest child, so this came as a slight surprise. “Interesting. Who’s all here, sport?”

“Um… well, William and Gloria, of course. And Katherine and Sarah. Katherine brought her husband, but I forget his name. And they’ve got two kids, Bill and Todd.”

Victor frowned at Sherlock. “You know, I can’t remember his name, either.”

“Harold,” Sherlock supplied. “He’s a mortician.”

“Ah, right. That’s why you got on with him.” Victor rummaged around in his bag. He finally selected a blue pullover and slipped it on over his t-shirt.

“And Sarah and Katherine are Gloria’s daughters, right? So they’re your half-sisters?” Timothy asked Victor. “I didn’t want to ask last night. It’s weird hanging out with them all when you’re not around. Usually I just see William and Gloria.”

“Yeah, they’re my sisters.” Victor grimaced inwardly - it had never felt right to apply that label to the women he barely knew. “But I haven’t seen Sarah since she was seven. Katherine and I stay in semi-regular contact, and Harold sometimes talks shop with Sherlock. Bill and Todd are my nephews, but I haven’t seen them in years. Katherine sends pictures of them with her emails, but…”

He trailed off. Both Sherlock and Timothy were looking at him.

“This is going to be very strange,” Victor said finally. _And difficult_ , he added silently. 

Sherlock got up off the bed and came over to him. He kissed Victor lightly on the cheek.

“That’s why we’re here,” he said simply. Timothy nodded. Victor gave them both a grateful smile.

“Well, here we go,” he said bracingly. “Come on. Let’s go meet the family.”

\----

William Trevor and his family were mingling in the main room. They had already broken out some wine, and Victor could smell dinner wafting down the corridor. It was almost time for the meal.

“There they are!” William announced jovially as Sherlock and Victor entered the room, Timothy on their heels. Timothy, having already been introduced to the various family members, took a seat on the sofa next to one of Katherine’s boys. 

“Hello,” Victor announced to the room at large, giving a half-hearted wave. “Er - Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Vic,” Katherine said warmly. She got up from her chair and came over to embrace him. She was much like her mother - tall, elegant, and dark-haired. “How was your flight?”

“Long,” Victor said with a weary smile. He pulled away, and then turned his gaze on the teen who had come to stand at her side. “Hello, Todd.”

Todd was the oldest of Katherine’s two boys. He was a year younger than Timothy. He offered his hand, and Victor took it.

“Bill’s over there,” Katherine said, pointing across the room at the sofa where Timothy was sitting. Victor raised his hand in a wave, and the other boy returned it. “You probably don’t remember him.”

“Well, he was a tiny, squalling creature the last time I saw him,” Victor said with a small smile. He turned to Todd. “And now you boys are at Eton, right?” 

Todd nodded. 

“An excellent choice. That’s where I went.”

“And look how he turned out,” Katherine teased. Victor rolled his eyes at her, but offered her a smile and a quick kiss on the cheek. 

“Thanks, sis,” he muttered. 

“Talking of that…” Katherine took his hand and led him over to the fireplace, where her husband Harold was chatting with a woman who appeared to be a younger version of herself. “Victor, this is Sarah. You haven’t seen her since she was… what, five?”

“Seven,” Victor said. He offered his hand; Sarah took it reluctantly. “You’ve - er - grown.”

“I should hope so,” Sarah said shortly. She picked up her wine glass and walked away. Victor exchanged a look with Katherine, who shrugged. 

“She’s rather territorial, and very protective of mother,” she said apologetically. 

Victor nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. He poured himself a glass of wine and then followed Katherine over to one of the settees. 

“How are things?” Katherine asked as they settled on the cushions. “You sounded rather distracted in your last email.”

“We had a triple homicide that kept us busy for about three weeks,” Victor said with a sigh. “I’m not as young as I used to be, Kat. There are only so many all-nighters I can pull anymore.”

“You work too hard,” Katherine said seriously. “You need a break, Vic.”

“That’s what this is,” Victor said, and mustered a wan smile for her. “It’s good to see you. I mean that.”

Katherine gave him a small smile and touched his knee gently. “We’ve missed you. I wish you lived closer.”

“I know.” Victor gripped her hand. “But the move was good for us. For Tim and Sherlock especially. I think they both needed to get away. Start over.”

Katherine looked across the room, to where Sherlock and Timothy were chatting by the fireplace. Timothy was in the midst of a story, gesturing animatedly with his hands. Sherlock was watching him fondly.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this,” Katherine said, “but I’ve always been amazed at how _alike_ those two look. They could be related.”

Victor snorted. “Five years ago, I couldn’t even get them to willingly sit down in the same room together. It was like raising two children instead of one.”

He sobered, and added, “They were both in tremendous pain when we moved. It was awful, not knowing how to help them. But they - got better. They healed together, I think. By the time Tim left for university this year, they were almost inseparable. I think Tim leaving has been harder on Sherlock than it has been on me, if you can believe that.”

“He’s having a wonderful time here,” Katherine said. “Harold and I went to see him play rugby back in November. He’s really quite good. But he does miss the two of you greatly.”

Victor happened to catch Timothy’s eye at that moment, and they grinned at one another.

“And we miss him,” he said quietly. Katherine squeezed his hand.

They filtered into the dining room half an hour later. Victor sat in the middle of one side of the table, and Sherlock and Timothy sat down automatically on either side of him. 

“Thanks, boys,” he said softly, giving their hands a brief, discreet squeeze under the table. He could face just about anything with these two at his side. 

William said grace, and then they started passing the dinner dishes. Christmas Eve was a casual affair in the Trevor household; most everyone was dressed in jeans and casual shirts, except for William and Gloria, who looked as though they were attending a fancy dinner party. 

“So, tell us, Sherlock,” Gloria said as they all began to eat. “What’s it like being a famous detective in America? Do they bring you cases still?”

“I don’t take on cases anymore,” Sherlock said, and though he now seemed content with this, those words still made Victor’s heart ache. “I write, mostly. I publish papers in scientific journals and edit chemistry textbooks. It’s decent pay, since there’s still no one out there who can do what I - did.”

Normally, Victor would have jumped in at this point and saved Sherlock from having to talk about himself, but Sherlock seemed content to bear the burden of everyone’s curiosity. He indulged their questions and dutifully repeated stories upon request.

The reprieve couldn’t last forever, and eventually some of the attention turned on to Victor. He gave as brief an overview of his job as he could get away with, and evidently it was enough. Being a policeman in America wasn’t nearly as interesting as being a world-famous private detective, it seemed, and soon the questions about his job petered off.

“How are the horses?” Gloria asked. “Katherine’s showed me pictures. They’re _lovely_.”

“Right pains in the arse, they are,” Sherlock muttered, only half-joking, but Victor laughed anyway.

“They’ve got spirit,” he said. “They mean well. Tim’s the only one who can ride them, though. They spook for everyone else. The most Sherlock and I can get away with is feeding them and letting them out into the pasture.”

The two Thoroughbreds had been left behind by the Bowers family upon their ill-fated move to England six years ago. The horses were skittish animals to begin with, and they didn’t trust anyone who wasn’t a member of the family they had been raised with. Timothy was the only surviving Bowers, now, and the beasts had latched onto him.

“And you’ve got dogs, too, right?” Gloria asked.

“Dixie and Axle,” Victor said with a nod. “They showed up at our doorstep one summer - no collars, no identification of any kind, severely malnourished. We never did find out where they came from. They’re good dogs. Sweet and loyal.”

“And with all the intelligence of a sack of rocks,” Sherlock groused. 

Victor laughed. He never would forget the afternoon four years ago when Sherlock had traipsed into the house, having just come back from feeding the horses, and came upon Victor and Timothy in the living room with the dogs.

_ I’m living in a house full of strays,  _ Sherlock had declared flatly as he observed the domestic scene, but his gaze had been fond. His eyes had been blue that day; clear and vibrant with happiness. Normally, his eyes were a sea-grey, and on the bad days, they could be as dark as the clouds that heralded a fierce summer storm.

Sherlock was looking at Victor now with steel-blue eyes, his gaze a mixture of wonder and open affection, as though he couldn’t quite believe that this patchwork life was his, and that he had fallen in love with it. Victor squeezed his hand under the table, and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked. William moved the conversation to other topics.

They all retired to the main room after dinner. A twelve-foot artificial tree sat in the corner of the room, between the window and the fireplace, and Victor was nearly overwhelmed just looking at it. Soft yellow lights sat daintily on every branch, and silver tinsel gave the tree a glazed look. There was a tasteful silver star on top of the tree, and an array of multi-coloured ornaments was perched on almost every branch. There were birds and angels; orbs and pinecones. Tiny wind chimes were scattered throughout the tree, and Victor touched one gently. It clinked together musically.

“What do you think?” Gloria was at his elbow suddenly, and Victor jumped. He took an automatic step away from her, but caught his father watching them out of the corner of his eye.

“Er - it’s lovely,” he managed. She gave him a beatific smile. 

“The girls decorated it. They do such a lovely job every year.” Gloria glided away, and Victor breathed a quiet sigh of relief. 

The gift exchange in the Trevor household was always done on Christmas Eve. When Victor had last lived in this house, it had been a quick affair - but then again, it had only been him and his parents. Just the three of them, in this room, with the small tree that Maria had loved to decorate. That tree had sported hand-crafted ornaments, most of them provided by Victor from his schooldays. It had been half the size of the one that stood in the corner now and a little less refined, but no less important.

Victor found that he preferred that tree to the perfect one that stood in its place. 

There wasn’t enough seating in the room for all of them, and so most of the men sat on the floor so their sisters and wives could have the sofas and chairs. Sherlock and Victor settled on pillows near the bookcases, and Timothy sat cross-legged on the floor with Katherine’s children. 

The opening of gifts was painfully slow. Each member of the family had bought at least one gift for everyone else, and they opened them one-by-one, going around the circle over and over until it was finished. They were left sitting amongst a mound of wrapping and bows, presents piled around them, all of them looking slightly shell-shocked. Victor felt drained and bereft at the end, as though he had been building up to something for months and suddenly it was all over. How ridiculous - their holiday had only just begun. 

“Well, that was lovely,” Gloria said at last. “Just lovely. Thank you all. It’s so good to have everyone here on Christmas.”

There were murmurs of approval around the circle. William got to his feet.

“The midnight service starts in an hour,” he said. “Gloria and I are planning to attend. I don’t suppose we can entice any of you to join us?”

Victor exchanged a glance with Sherlock, and then caught Timothy’s pleading eye.

“It’s been a long couple of days,” he said apologetically to the group. “I don’t think Sherlock or I have slept in forty-eight hours, and Tim had a rough journey out here. We’ll stay behind.”

“Breakfast is at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” William said with a small smile, “if you want to join us.”

“Understood, Dad,” Victor said. They embraced, and William murmured _Happy Christmas_ in Victor’s ear. “Thank you for this evening.”

The rest of the family trudged out, leaving Sherlock, Victor, and Timothy sitting alone in the main room. 

“Doing all right?” Victor asked Sherlock, who nodded despite the fact that deep purple crescents had formed under his eyes. “Feel up to a walk?”

“I thought you were tired,” Timothy teased, though he brightened slightly at the words. They all got to their feet. 

“I am,” Victor admitted, and Sherlock nodded his assent. “But I want to spend some time with you before we turn in. And we don’t have snow back home.”

They all trekked outside after donning boots and coats. It was still snowing, though that was a generous term. Tiny flakes drifted through the sky, and Victor knew that they wouldn’t amount to anything. 

“Why don’t you like Gloria?” Timothy was nothing if not blunt, and Victor knew which one of them he picked that up from. 

“I didn’t say that…” Victor tried lamely. Sherlock, who was holding his hand, squeezed it gently.

“Victor,” Sherlock reprimanded lightly, “he has dealt with the truth about his biological father. Surely he can handle your drama with Gloria.”

“I never said he couldn’t,” Victor said irritably. “It’s just that sometimes I don’t like to think about it - or talk about it - if I don’t have to.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Timothy said hastily. “I’m sorry. We can talk about Cambridge.”

Victor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m sorry, kid,” he said at last. “I’ve just been tired. Look, Gloria - she seems to be a fairly nice woman, and I’m sure you like her, it’s just…”

He trailed off and drew a deep breath. “My father started an affair with her when I was a child. He kept her in a flat in a different city, and he fathered two children by her - Katherine and Sarah. He led this double life for years, pretending to my mother that he was going on business trips when in reality he was going to visit his mistress. When my mother died, the truth came out. He admitted everything to me, because he wanted to marry Gloria and bring her to live here - in my childhood home.”

Victor bit the inside of his cheek, struggling to bring himself under control. 

“It hurts,” he muttered finally. “It hurts being here, seeing them… it’s like my mother and I never lived here.”

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of the three of them trudging along through the snow, their boots crunching over the ground.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” Timothy said at last, sounding incredibly guilty, and Victor shook his head. 

“Don’t,” he said swiftly. “It’s my own issue. I know you like them, and you get along well with everyone here. I don’t want that to stop, Tim. Just - that’s where I’m coming from. I don’t envision that changing.”

They walked along in silence for some minutes more, until Sherlock finally started quizzing Timothy about his classes. They chatted about Cambridge for a time, which Victor appreciated. It gave him a reprieve. 

Finally, they had made a circuit of the snowy garden and were back at the house. Noses red and running and fingers chilled, they decided it was time to turn in for the night. Timothy embraced them both, and Victor held him just a little bit longer than Sherlock did, savouring these moments with his child, because who knew when they were going to occur again. 

It wasn’t even a guarantee that Victor would see next Christmas.

“Victor?”

“I’m okay,” Victor whispered, rallying quickly in the face of Sherlock’s concern. Timothy had disappeared already down the corridor that led to his room, and it was just the two of them standing in the foyer. “I’m sorry. Let’s go to bed."

\----

They slept through breakfast the next morning. Victor woke at nine to hear the shower running, and the spot next to him was empty. He rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head, breathing in the sharp scent of Sherlock and savouring what little warmth was left on his lover’s side of the bed. 

He fell into a muddled sleep again and was woken some time later by Sherlock kissing his neck. 

“Mmmph,” Victor muttered, trying to twist away from the gentle lips. Sherlock found a particularly sensitive patch of flesh just beneath his ear, and Victor shivered. “Sher - what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said innocently, right before he nipped lightly at the junction between Victor’s neck and shoulder. “Happy Christmas.”

Victor twisted his head around and captured Sherlock’s lips in a proper kiss. Sherlock worked his hands under Victor’s t-shirt and broke away long enough to pull it over his head. He then rolled Victor onto his back and climbed onto the bed, drawing Victor into a lazy kiss while he worked his fingers under the waistband of Victor’s tracksuit bottoms and slid them over his hips. 

“Is this my gift, then?” Victor teased breathlessly, and Sherlock let out a quick huff of laughter. Victor preferred to do the deed in the early hours of morning, when they were groggy with sleep and inhibitions were low. Sherlock preferred to do it by night, when he was in the mood for it at all.

Sherlock kissed his way down Victor’s chest and pushed his thighs apart, settling between his legs. He nosed at the crease between Victor’s thigh and his groin, and Victor allowed his head to fall back on the pillow, swallowing a moan. He slid his right hand between the slats on the headboard, gripping it for purchase. When Sherlock took him into his mouth, he bit down on the pad of his left thumb to stifle his groan.

Victor tried to hold himself in check, at least for a while, but the fact of the matter was that it had been too long since they’d had more than a few moments alone together. Sherlock held him still with two broad hands on his thighs, and he bobbed his head along Victor’s shaft, hollowing his cheeks and pulling off just enough so that he could flick the tip of his tongue over Victor’s slit. Soon enough, Victor felt the familiar tightening just behind his navel, and his thighs started to quiver. He came apart under Sherlock’s deft tongue, bucking against the hands that held him in place as he came, and he bit down on his hand so hard that the skin broke and bled in perfect half-crescents. 

Sherlock lapped at his over-sensitive cock while Victor breathed, trying to bring himself under control again. 

“Happy Christmas to you, too,” he whispered finally, and Sherlock let out a breathy chuckle against his thigh. He crawled up Victor’s body to reach for the glass of water sitting on the bedside table, and he drank deeply from it before leaning down and giving Victor a proper kiss. Victor skimmed his hands down Sherlock’s sides and then cupped him through his trousers. Sherlock made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. 

“It’s all right,” he said when they broke for air, angling his hips away from Victor’s hands. He was completely flaccid, which wasn’t surprising. For once, it was also a relief. Victor didn’t know if he had the energy to actually bring Sherlock off, which was unusual - and just another facet of this illness that he was going to have to get used to. “They’ll be expecting us for lunch.”

Victor dragged himself into the shower, and then dressed while Sherlock sat on the bed with his laptop, answering emails and checking his website. 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked suddenly, without looking up from his work. 

“Just tired,” Victor said, flashing what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He hadn’t yet told Sherlock about his visit with the doctor the other week, hoping that this trip would be able to mask his symptoms for a little while longer. The exhaustion was his biggest problem at the moment, and that could easily be explained away by the combination of working long hours recently and battling jet lag. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock said, sounding unconvinced, but he didn’t pursue the subject. 

Lunch was a cheery affair. Most everyone appeared refreshed from a long night’s rest, and Christmas Day had none of the melancholy that accompanied Christmas Eve. Even the weather was bright and clear, and the pale winter sun reflected off the snow, making the world outside glisten cheerfully. 

“Where are the boys?” Victor asked Katherine as they took a seat at the table. Timothy, Bill, and Todd were all absent from this gathering.

“Outside,” she said, a fond smile touching her lips. “God knows what they’re up to, but they’re having a good time and I didn’t want to interrupt them. They’ll come in when they’re hungry, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know how you do it, you two,” Gloria said to Katherine and Victor. “Those boys must run you ragged. I’m so thankful I only had daughters!”

The comment wasn’t malicious, Victor knew that, and coming from anyone else he would have laughed. But it still felt like a slight, and the most he could muster was a bland smile while Katherine laughed along with her mother. 

“You know, Victor, I’ve been wondering,” William said as they settled in to eat. “Have you heard anything from Timothy’s father?”

Victor felt Sherlock tense, as he usually did whenever Christopher Bowers was mentioned. He laid a hand on Sherlock’s knee under the table. 

“Dad, for all intents and purposes, that’s me,” he said, and William looked chagrined. “But no, we haven’t heard anything from Christopher. I don’t think that’s likely to change.”

“How’s Timothy been dealing with that?” Gloria asked. “The poor dear.”

Victor chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, considering how much he should reveal. They had found Timothy a therapist upon their move to Virginia five years ago, and he had seen her up until his move back to England for university. Timothy was fairly tight-lipped about that portion of his life, but a few veiled conversations in the months since had led Victor to believe that he had found himself a therapist over here, and that he was continuing with his counseling. Victor was proud of Timothy for being so self-aware, and for realising that this wasn’t something he was going to be able to get through alone.

But he _would_ get through it. 

“It’s not been easy,” Victor said finally. “But he’s doing alright. He’s stronger than any of us, I think.”

Katherine patted his knee, and William steered the conversation to more innocuous topics. 

Soon enough, the meal had been consumed, and the house staff set about clearing the table. Victor, William, and Katherine remained at the table, drinking their way through a second bottle of wine and chatting about Katherine’s business. Sherlock and Harold had fallen into conversation on the other side of the table, and eventually they both got to their feet. 

“We’re going to join the boys for a bit,” Sherlock said. He settled his hands on Victor’s shoulders and gave a light squeeze. The unspoken invitation was there - _you can join us if you need to get away_. 

“Have fun,” Victor said, silently telling Sherlock that he was all right. Sherlock nodded, kissed his cheek, and departed from the room with Harold on his heels. 

“What a sweet man,” Katherine sighed after they had left, and Victor laughed.

“You should’ve seen him twenty-five years ago,” he said dryly. “ _Rude_ was probably the nicest thing you could say about him.”

“I suppose death has a way of changing someone, doesn’t it?” William said, refilling Victor’s glass. 

“I think it’s more what came after that forced him to change,” Victor said. But he didn’t feel like reflection on that difficult period of time, not at Christmas, and so he swiftly changed the subject.

Eventually, Katherine went in search of her mother and sister. Victor got to his feet and stretched, wondering if he could get away with a nap without raising too many questions.

“Come join me in the study, Victor,” William said, which decided the matter for him right there. “I want to show you something.”

The study he was speaking of - there were four of them in this house - was down a short corridor just off the dining room, and when Victor stepped inside he was hit with the cloying scent of fresh wood and furniture polish.

“So this is what you’re doing in your retirement,” he said in some amusement. He surveyed the pieces of furniture in the room, all of which had apparently been hand-crafted. The large desk, the bookcases, the small end tables next to each chair - all of it had been constructed by William. Victor remembered William mentioning his new hobby here and there in their various email exchanges. “This is astounding, Dad.”

“I’m glad you think so.” William beamed, pleased with the praise. He walked over to the liquor cabinet and opened it, pulling out two tumblers and a bottle of amber liquid. He poured them both a drink and then handed Victor his. “Happy Christmas, son.”

“Happy Christmas.” Victor took a long swallow of the scotch. He coughed. “Damn.”

William smirked at him. “Been a while since you’ve had decent scotch, has it?”

Victor shrugged. “I tend not to drink around Sherlock.”

William nodded in understanding and stood sipping his drink. Victor walked over to the window and gazed out at the wintry lawn. 

“Timothy’s a good kid,” William said after some minutes of companionable silence. “He comes out for dinner maybe once a month. We enjoy having him.”

“I’m sure he appreciates the free meal,” Victor said dryly, and William laughed. 

Victor took an uneasy swallow of his drink, trying to calm his racing heart. He wiped a clammy palm discreetly against his jeans. His father was making easy conversation, but there was a thickness in the air; an anticipation that indicated that this was just a warm-up to the discussion William wanted to have, the one that Victor had been avoiding for almost twenty years. 

“I think he’s enjoying the time with his cousins,” William went on. Victor walked over to the liquor cabinet and refilled his glass. “They don’t see each other all that often.”

Victor’s stomach twisted at the term _cousins_. He supposed it was an accurate interpretation of the situation, given that Katherine and Sarah were his sisters. _Half-_ sisters. Regardless, their children would be cousins to his own, and Timothy was the closest he was ever going to get to a son. 

Hell, who was he kidding. Timothy _was_ his son, and the Trevors were now his family as much as they were Victor’s. He should be grateful that, even though he was thousands of miles away from his actual home, Timothy still had a loving group of people who were willing to look after him. 

“Yes, well,” Victor said finally, blandly, “I know Timothy is busy with his classes.”

“And your sisters miss you,” William pressed. Victor gritted his teeth. “You and Sherlock need to visit more often.”

Victor sorely wanted to say, _But they aren’t my sisters._ Instead, he once again chose the route of practicality. 

“Plane tickets overseas are ridiculously expensive, Dad, you _know_ that,” he said. “And it’s not easy getting the time off work - for me, at least. Sherlock can largely come and go as he pleases, but that’s because he’s… Sherlock.”

William settled on the low sofa. Victor kept his gaze fixed firmly on the frosty lawn beyond the cold panes of glass. 

“Gloria’s happy you’re here, you know,” William said finally. 

Victor’s stomach roiled. He drank from his glass and felt his father’s stare at his back.

“Victor.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to say to that,” Victor said tightly. “I’m not happy to see her. I don’t want anything to do with her.”

“Victor,” William scolded sadly. “She’s been my wife for twenty years. Don’t you think it’s time -”

“No,” Victor said viciously, whipping around. “No, I absolutely _do not_ think it’s time to accept her. I don’t want anything to do with the woman you kept on the side until Mother died. I don’t want anything to do with the woman you _fuck_ in the bed you used to share with her. Are we understood?”

William’s face hardened.

“Stop being a child,” he said harshly. “You’re forty-six years old, Victor. Surely you understand by now that love never quite works out the way we want it to. It’s a complicated thing.”

“ _That’s_ your excuse?” Victor asked incredulously. “That’s the only thing you can say about this whole disaster? And how dare you try to compare what you had with Mother with this… farce. This isn’t love, it’s a folly!”

William went very still, and his face turned to stone.

“I don’t think you get to be the judge of that, son,” he said quietly. “I love Gloria deeply. She is everything to me.”

“Then you should have divorced Mother to be with your _mistress_ ,” Victor snarled. “Spared us all a bit of pain.”

“Your mother never knew about Gloria,” William said. “I regret deeply the pain I’ve caused you, but your mother never suffered that. I’m thankful for that, at least. I know this would have been devastating to her.”

“She had a name, you know,” Victor said stiffly. “Maria. Call her by her name. You owe her that much. You married _Maria_.”

“And I loved Maria,” William said. 

“Don’t be stupid. If you truly loved her, you never would have found yourself _another woman_ and fathered children by her!” Victor snapped. “You prioritized them over your actual family. How many times did you miss holidays, birthdays, family events? You skipped out on my graduation from Eton!”

“Sarah had just been born,” William said gently. “I needed to be there for -”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Victor snarled. “I’m tired of your excuses. If they were so damned important, you shouldn’t have even tried to pretend to care about Mother and me. You never were there, anyway.”

“Victor, I am so sorry,” William said quietly. “But you must understand - there is no such thing as finding that one person you’re meant to be with. The myth that you will have one and only one soul mate is just that - a myth. A fantasy. And I - I was lucky enough to meet another woman who I loved - love - just as dearly as your mother.”

“Lucky,” Victor repeated dully. “You call this - luck.”

William lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He downed the rest of his drink and pushed himself to his feet to make another. 

“I was blessed with not one, but two families in this lifetime,” he said, his back to Victor. “I have three beautiful children. I had the love of two wonderful women. I don’t regret that, Victor. How could I? How many people ever come close to being as fortunate?”

“If Mother had ever found out -” Victor said bitterly.

“But she never did,” William said calmly. “I regret the circumstances. Of course I do. I regret not being able to be there equally for all my children. But you had a good childhood, Victor, and two parents who loved you.”

Victor drained the rest of his glass and stood there for a moment, contemplating it. Two drinks in less than an hour, on top of the wine he’d had at lunch, probably wasn’t the wisest of ideas.

He was momentarily glad of Sherlock’s absence. He did his level best not to drink around his partner, given Sherlock’s struggles with alcohol in the past, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to have the rest of this conversation sober. 

_ Sherlock _ . Victor swallowed hard as he went over to make himself another drink. He had desperately been avoiding thinking of his lover just now, because he didn’t want his father to try to compare his own sham of a marriage with what Victor had with Sherlock. He had imagined this conversation dozens - hundreds - of times over the years.

_ Victor, imagine what you would feel like if you had married that Matthew character, only to meet Sherlock years later? How could you possibly be expected to resist?  _

Victor felt nauseated all of a sudden, and he took a long swallow of his drink. He should have started drinking water at least an hour ago, and he was going to regret his decision later on.

Unless the nausea wasn’t related to his alcohol consumption. It was perfectly possible that it was a different beast entirely.

_ Oh, God.  _

“Victor?” William was suddenly at his side, his hand on Victor’s elbow. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Victor managed.

“You look very pale.”

“It’s the light.” Victor tugged his arm from his father’s grip and paced over to the window again, putting at least twenty feet between them. “How did you meet Gloria?”

“Victor -”

Victor held up a hand sharply. “You’re the one who wanted to talk about this so badly. So we’re going to talk about it. When did you meet her?”

“I was on a business trip to Hamburg. One night, my colleagues and I went to see a show. She was the lead. I met her backstage afterwards,” William said. “We got to talking. Turned out, we had a lot in common. We even grew up in the same city.”

“When was this?”

William was silent. Victor shot him a glare.

“I want to know how much of my life was a _lie_ ,” he hissed. “When did you meet her?”

“Nineteen-eighty-five,” William said finally, and Victor sagged. He placed a hand against the windowsill to steady himself. 

“I was eight,” Victor whispered. “I was _eight years old_.”

“I know.”

“And you -” Victor drew in a sharp breath through his nose. “Did you ever care about me? Did I ever matter to you? Or were Mother and I just a convenient cover story? We were the facade; the family you could show off to your wealthy parents, because who wanted _you_ dating someone as lowly as a stage actress?”

“Victor.” William came over to him and gripped his elbow. “You _always_ matter to me. Your mother - Maria was the best part of my life. She was extraordinary, as you well know. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about her, and I miss her fiercely. I wish - I wish I could have met Gloria later in life. I wish she could have come along after your mother’s death, so that I could have avoided this unpleasantness.”

“You make it sound as though you didn’t have a choice.” Victor tugged his arm from his father’s grip and stepped away. 

“Victor, I know it’s hard to understand,” William said, a note of impatience now present in his voice, “but imagine if you had met Sherlock -”

“ _No_ ,” Victor hissed. “Don’t you dare make that comparison, don’t you _dare_!”

“What if you had met him at the same time you were seriously seeing Matthew?” William pressed on regardless. 

“I never would have pursued it,” Victor growled. “I _never_ would have done that to Matthew - _or_ to Sherlock. The possibility doesn’t even cross my _mind_. It’s unfathomable. It’s reprehensible.”

“Or what if you were to meet Matthew now,” William went on patiently, “and he is as he was when you two were planning a life together?”

Victor was gripping his drink so hard that his hand shook, and liquid sloshed over the side of the glass. 

“You’re disgusting,” he managed through gritted teeth. “You are _scum_ , and I’m ashamed to call you my father.”

William’s expression didn’t change. He looked, as he had throughout this entire conversation, pitying, as though Victor was a child who simply couldn’t comprehend the complexities of the adult world.

“You _chose_ to hurt Mother,” Victor went on, unable to stop himself. “You sat down and looked at the situation, and you _chose_ to hurt her. To hurt us. You decided that it was worth it. You _consciously_ decided that we meant less to you than Gloria. Why did you spend all those years pretending otherwise?”

“Victor -”

“ _How could you do that to her_?” Victor roared suddenly. He whipped his glass across the room, where it landed in the fireplace and shattered. “How could you choose to hurt the woman you had decided to spend the rest of your life with? You were _married,_ you had a _child -”_

Victor broke off, drawing a ragged breath. 

“I hate you,” he hissed. “I hate you so much some days, it physically _aches_. How dare you get to choose to hurt Mother, and without any consequences… while I - I would give _anything_ not to hurt Sherlock, and I don’t even have a fucking _choice_.”

William had opened his mouth to interrupt, but he closed it abruptly at Victor’s final sentence. Victor covered his face with his hands, breathing sharply through his nose and trying to calm his racing heart. He was trembling, and he felt light-headed.

“Victor.”

Victor shook his head, his control slipping. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Forget it, Dad.”

“No,” William said. “What do you mean?”

Victor's throat worked, trying to form words he had been avoiding saying out loud for weeks.

“I have cancer.” Victor dropped his hands and stared out the window, unable to meet his father’s gaze. 

“What?” William managed after a moment. 

Victor fought a burning sensation behind his eyes, but he knew already that it was going to be a losing battle. His throat was threatening to close, and he swallowed hard several times. 

“I found out two weeks ago,” he said hoarsely. “Sherlock doesn’t know.”

“How bad?”

“The median survival range is ten years.” Victor curled his hands into fists so tight, his nails bit into his palms. It was the first time he’d said any of this out loud. “It’s leukemia.”

He went weak at the knees then, his legs threatening to buckle, and a firm hand steered him over to a nearby sofa. Victor sank down onto it. He buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe. After a moment, the cushion next to him sagged, and Victor felt William sit down at his side. 

“Victor,” he said quietly, gently, “why haven’t you told Sherlock?”

“Because I wanted to have this one last Christmas,” Victor hissed. He swiped the heels of his hands across his face and stared bleakly at the cold fireplace on the other side of the room. William rested a hand on his knee, and Victor swallowed hard. “Because I feel okay right now, and I don’t know when I’m going to feel like this again. I wanted - I wanted Sherlock and Timothy to have one last holiday where I wasn’t - wasn’t sick. And I just wanted to pretend that everything was fine - while I still could.”

A wave of nausea swept over him again, and the room tilted dangerously. Victor dropped his head into his hands, trembling all over, fighting the bile that rose into the back of his throat. It hit him then how brief a reprieve this was; how when they got back home, he had an appointment with his doctor to discuss treatments. He would need to go in at least once a week for regular infusions, and it was going to get worse before it got better. He’d have to take medical leave from work at some point, probably, and Sherlock would be relegated to the role of caretaker. It would go on for months, at least, if not years. And there were all the side effects from the medication to deal with, in addition to the illness itself - the hair loss, the weight loss, nausea, pain. So much pain. And no guarantee that he would come out of any of it alive. 

“You ought to tell Sherlock. And you _need_ to tell Timothy,” William said quietly. “You need to tell him before you leave England again. Don’t make him hear the news over the phone, or from someone else.”

Victor gave a jerky nod, not trusting his voice. William rested a hand on his back.

“We’ll get you through this,” he said, his voice bracing. “I promise, Victor.”

“And what if you don’t?” Victor hissed. He couldn’t stop shaking. “What if - if it all goes wrong, and I - oh, my God. _Christ_.”

“You can’t think like that,” William said firmly. He rubbed a gentle circle into Victor’s back. “That’s not going to do anyone any good.”

“It’s all I _can_ think about,” Victor snapped, his voice skittering up the scale in his distress. “Fuck, Dad, I’m terrified. I’m so scared -”

William shifted to wrap Victor in a loose hug, and Victor broke down. It felt as though a dam gave way in his chest, and everything he had been struggling to hold back for the past month came surging outwards. He fell apart in his father’s arms, weeping into his shoulder. William threaded thick fingers through Victor’s hair.

“Shh,” he soothed gently. “Oh, Victor. I know. I know, you’re scared. My poor boy.”

And that just made Victor weep all the harder. He was certain the last time William had held him in this manner he’d been twelve years old and sick with the ‘flu - a bout so bad that his parents had debated whether he needed to be hospitalized. William sat up with him for two nights in a row that awful December week, watching over Victor as he slept or soothing him when sleep was elusive and his fever was raging. 

He’d been seeing Gloria for four years at that point, and Victor shuddered. It had been a lie, all of it. William had probably been counting down the days until he could go be with his mistress.

And the worst part of it was, from the moment of this most recent diagnosis, Victor had wanted nothing more than this. He’d been longing for the home he hadn’t lived in since he was seventeen; for the father who had seen him through all his childhood illnesses and injuries. He wanted his mother, who was the only one who had ever made soup properly when Victor was sick as a child. 

He wanted a life that had never been real in the first place, and it _hurt_. 

Except that William was still here, holding him, carding fingers through Victor’s hair and murmuring quietly to him. 

“Breathe,” he was softly instructing Victor now. “Deep breaths, now. There we go.”

Victor was still wheezing and trembling, but the sobs subsided and his heart rate started to slow. The tears still fell freely, silently, and he weakly tried to stem the flow with his sleeve. William rubbed his back patiently, and at one point he shifted just enough so that he could pull his handkerchief out of his pocket and hand it to Victor.

Eventually, even the tears ceased, though it was more because Victor simply didn’t have the energy left to produce more. He felt drained and empty, his head was pounding, and his mouth was dry as sandpaper. William continued to hold him, and Victor stared blankly at the opposite side of the room. He didn’t know what to do, or say. He didn’t even care anymore. He was so bloody _tired_.

“Come on, champ,” William said finally. He drew away, and Victor finally straightened. “Are you feeling okay?”

Victor snorted. He swiped the cloth across his cheeks and sniffed.

“Not really,” he said, his voice thick. 

“I meant physically. I know you’re not okay.” William brushed a strand of hair out of Victor’s eyes. Victor sighed.

“I’m tired,” he said finally. “All the time. I’ve had fevers and headaches on a weekly occurrence for… a few months now. Night sweats that even Sherlock has noticed. Joint pain, easy bruising…”

He trailed off and shrugged. “Most of it has been easy to explain away. Apart from the fevers and night sweats, everything else can be attributed to stress, my job, and getting older.”

“You need to tell him,” William said gently. 

“Not today,” Victor said firmly. “Not on Christmas.”

William pushed himself to his feet. Victor rose a moment later on shaky legs. 

“Dinner’s not for another few hours, and I doubt the boys will be back until then,” William said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and sleep for a bit? I’ll have one of the maids bring you some water and paracetamol.”

Victor snorted softly. “I’m not a child.”

“Maybe not, but you’re always going to be my boy,” William said with a gentle smile. “That means I’m allowed to do stuff like this.”

He cupped the side of Victor’s face, sadness flickering across his own.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly. “We’ll get you through this.”

Victor nodded, even though he didn’t quite believe it, and left for his room.

\-----

Sherlock was the one who woke him later on. 

It was afternoon by that point. The curtains in Victor’s room were gold around the edges. Daylight was swiftly fading; in an hour it would be sunset, and dinner would be at least two hours after that. Victor hated the winter months for this very reason. His body took the darkness as a signal that the day was drawing to a close, when in fact it got dark deceptively early. As a result, he was always tired in the evenings.

And with this illness, he was simply exhausted. 

Sherlock was perched on the edge of the mattress. He brushed his fingers across Victor’s forehead, smoothing the hair out of his face. Victor rested a hand palm-up on Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock held it. 

“Your father says you weren’t feeling well,” Sherlock said finally. Victor gave a groggy shake of his head.

“Nah,” he said in a thick voice. He cleared his throat and added, “Jus’ a bit tired. All this traveling. Think it’s finally caught up with me. Did you and Tim have a good day together?”

“Yes.” Sherlock was now carding gentle fingers through Victor’s hair, and Victor allowed his eyes to fall closed again. “He’s… astounding.”

“I know,” Victor murmured. 

He was almost asleep when Sherlock spoke again.

“He wants to visit his father,” he told Victor. “And he wants us to go with him.”

Victor cracked open aching eyes to peer up at him. 

“Timothy wants to visit Christopher?” he muttered. Sherlock nodded. “When?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Sometime before we leave. He doesn’t want to do it alone.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s not something I _want_ him to do alone,” Sherlock said. “So if he’s determined to do it, I think it’s best that we be there.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” Victor said, though he had to admit that the prospect of Timothy visiting his biological father was less than pleasant. “Let’s do that on the way to London to see John and Greg. We’ll get it out of the way so he doesn’t spend the rest of his holiday fretting over it.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand in affirmation.

“Do you feel like dinner?” he asked, and Victor snorted quietly. 

“Not really,” he whispered. “But it’s Christmas. How long do I have?”

“Gloria says the meal will be ready at seven-thirty. It’s just after four now.” Sherlock leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’ll come back at seven. Just rest.”

But Victor didn’t release his hand. Instead, he gave a tug, and Sherlock fixed him with a quizzical look. 

“Stay,” Victor whispered, hating how pathetic he sounded - and how much he didn’t want Sherlock to leave. What was happening to him? “Just for a bit.”

Sherlock carefully extracted himself from Victor’s grip. He peeled off his socks and his black jumper - the one Mrs Hudson had given him two Christmases ago - and then crawled under the bedclothes. He curled around Victor from behind, wrapping his arm around Victor’s waist, and stayed until Victor fell asleep.

Victor finally crawled out of bed at seven, took a cold shower, and dressed in jeans and the blue button-down Sherlock liked. Napping on and off for half the afternoon hadn’t been the best idea. He now felt groggy and slow, and he was still so exhausted that he was beginning to feel nauseated. Losing it in front of his father earlier also hadn’t done anything for his appearance - his eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and his head was aching. Victor splashed some cold water on his face and took another couple of paracetamol. Christmas dinner was usually a subdued affair in the Trevor household, and they dined by candlelight before retiring to the main room, which was only lit by the light from the Christmas tree. Hopefully, no one would notice how ill Victor looked. 

Dinner started at seven-thirty, just as Sherlock had told him, though the actual meal was preceded by half an hour of drinks and chat in one of the parlors. Victor was the last to arrive. He tried to slip into the room quietly, but Gloria caught sight of him just as he came over the threshold.

“Oh, Victor, dear,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “I’m so glad you could join us. Sherlock was just telling us that you weren’t feeling well. Would you like something to drink?”

“It’s just a headache, and no. Thank you,” Victor remembered to add as an afterthought. The others resumed their conversation, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. 

Timothy appeared out of nowhere at his elbow, and Victor gave the first genuine smile he had all day. 

“Happy Christmas, Tim,” he greeted warmly, drawing Timothy into a quick hug. “I see you and Sherlock managed not to kill each other today, eh?”

“He’s not so bad,” Timothy allowed with a small smirk. Sherlock caught Victor’s gaze from the sofa where he was seated and rolled his eyes. Victor laughed.

“Come sit with us,” he said, and Timothy obliged. He was nursing a beer. Sherlock, Victor noticed when he sat down, was simply drinking water. 

“Joining me on the wagon?” he asked dryly. Victor sighed.

“It appears so,” he said. He didn’t want to think about what alcohol would do to him right now, especially on an empty stomach. 

“Good.” Sherlock leaned down and picked up a water glass that had been sitting next to him on the ground. “I guessed correctly, then.”

“I thought you never guessed.” Victor took the water gratefully, though, and gave Sherlock a kiss. “Thanks, love.”

He then turned to Timothy and said, “So, what did you two get up to today?”

Timothy recounted the day’s activities with much enthusiasm, telling Victor about the snowball fight he had managed to rope Sherlock into - “He cheats, though.” - and the adventures he had gone on with his cousins, exploring the property and going into town for a pint at the only pub that was open on Christmas Day. Victor leaned against Sherlock while he listened, and Sherlock accepted the burden of his weight without question. 

Eventually, they all retired to the dining room. Once again, Victor sat next to Sherlock, but this time Timothy sat across from them so that he could be by his cousins. Sarah, the last one to enter the dining room, was therefore forced to take a seat by Victor. He gave her a cordial nod; she met his gaze briefly but otherwise didn’t acknowledge his presence. 

William said a few vague words about family and the importance of maintaining those bonds, and then the meal commenced. 

“You’re freezing,” Sherlock said quietly into Victor’s ear as they were passing dishes around the table. Their fingers had brushed.

“I was holding a cold water glass,” Victor pointed out, but Sherlock gave him a look that said plainly that it didn’t explain all the other times Victor’s flesh was chilled - which was always, nowadays. 

Harold was sitting on Sherlock’s other side, and the two of them eventually got into a discussion about water-logged corpses. Katherine, sitting across from Victor, pulled him into a discussion about what it was like to live in America. Sarah was mostly quiet, unless someone directly addressed her, and Timothy was soon deep in conversation with Katherine’s children. 

“Victor, are you sure you don’t want some wine?” Gloria offered.

“No,” he said shortly, irritated at having been interrupted. He opened his mouth to resume his conversation with Katherine, but was stopped again.

“Are you sure, dear? It’s lovely wine, brought back from -”

“I’m not interested,” Victor said abruptly, and Gloria fell silent. “No, I don’t want wine. I don’t care where it came from.”

“There’s no need to be rude,” Sarah snapped suddenly. Her voice carried across the dining table, which fell silent. “Just because Dad chose her over your mother doesn’t give you the right to talk to her like that! You’re not even family. You shouldn’t be here.”

_ “Sarah!”  _ William said sharply, but she glared defiantly at him.

“It’s true!” she said. “You’ve been married to Mum for almost forty years. You made your choice. Why do you even bother acknowledging him?”

“Victor is as much my child as you are,” William said stiffly.

“Sarah,” Victor broke in, his mouth dry and his veins flooded with ice as he did the mental calculation. “Did you say forty years?”

“Yes. What of it?”

Victor felt as though the rug had been ripped out from under him, and he glanced at William. His father was ashen; his lips, a thin white line. 

He’d never told them. He had never told his daughters that the reason he couldn’t be with them all the time was because he had another wife - another family - elsewhere in England. They had always thought their parents had been married, and that William simply traveled often for business. And Victor - Victor was from a fleeting relationship, and from a time when their mother wasn’t in William’s life. 

“Well, that’s interesting,” Victor said tightly. 

“Why’s it interesting?” Sarah demanded. 

Victor maintained enough of his composure to mutter, “Never mind. Excuse me,” before getting unsteadily from his feet and escaping from the room. 

\----

The south wing of the house was cold and lifeless, and it smelled as though no one had ventured down here in years. It was entirely possible that this was the case; all the busts and paintings that lined the corridor were covered in white sheets to protect them from the accumulation of dust. 

Victor paused halfway down the corridor and leaned against the wall, his arms folded tightly over his chest. It was partly to ward off the chill and mostly because he couldn’t stop shaking - with confusion, with pain, with pure and unadulterated rage. 

How _dare_ he. 

“Victor!” Sherlock’s voice echoed down the corridor. Victor turned his head. He could see Sherlock as the other end of the hall because he was backlit by light from the foyer. Sherlock couldn’t see him, however - only shadows. “Victor?”

“Here,” Victor said, his voice barely above normal speaking range, but it was enough. Sherlock jogged briskly down the corridor, coming to a halt at his side. “You didn’t have to come after me.”

“What, you expected me to stay in the same room as those idiots?” Sherlock said derisively. “I already spent an entire afternoon with them because you were sleeping. You owe me for that, by the way.”

Victor wanted to laugh, and he tried, but all that came out was a choked sob. Sherlock gripped his shoulders and kissed him on the forehead.

“Jesus Christ,” Victor hissed. “I thought I’d prepared myself for everything they might say. I thought - but he didn’t even _tell_ them about Mother. They had been married for _thirty years_ when she died. And I -”

He swallowed hard and finished, “And I thought I meant more to him than that.”

“I am sorry,” Sherlock said quietly, and it sounded genuine. Sherlock had a habit of repeating sentiments that he had learned over the years were appropriate in certain situations, but rarely did he actually mean them. This time, however, he sounded sorrowful. He took one of Victor’s hands in his own, and Victor held on tightly.

“I love you, you know,” Victor said thickly. He was squeezing Sherlock’s hand so hard now that he was sure it hurt, but Sherlock didn’t say anything. “I’d never do to you what - what he did to my mother.”

Sherlock swept his thumb once over the back of Victor’s hand. 

“I have no doubt about that,” he said at last. He squeezed Victor’s hand. “But - you _are_ hiding something from me, Victor. I don’t know what it is, but you’ve had something on your mind for a while now.”

Victor’s stomach twisted. It was too soon; it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. 

“I have, yeah,” he admitted at last. “Let’s get married.”

Sherlock stared at him.

“Married,” he repeated blankly. Victor nodded.

“It’s about time, don’t you think?” he said. He swept his thumb under his eye, wiping away a stray droplet of liquid. He swallowed hard several times, trying to keep himself in check. “And we’re here, you know? Might as well. We’re seeing John and Mary tomorrow, and Greg and Sally the day after. Why not get them all together? And Molly, too, of course. Mrs Hudson. And Tim. Tim needs to be there. Mycroft might even come…”

He trailed off. Sherlock no longer looked mildly bemused; now he looked deeply troubled. 

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly. Victor shook his head. 

“I want to marry you,” he whispered. “And I want to do it surrounded by the family I’ve chosen… not the one I was given.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why now? We could always do it in the summer.”

Victor shook his head again. Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Victor,” he said firmly, taking both of Victor’s hands in his own, “I’ll marry you. Of course I will. I’ll do it tonight, if you want. But only if you tell me _what’s been going on_.”

“I can’t,” Victor said, his voice cracking. “I can’t - not today. Not like this. I didn’t want -”

He sighed and said helplessly, “It’s _Christmas_.”

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips. 

“I love you,” he said quietly. “You are the best part of my life. But you are frightening me, Victor. I’d rather know now what is that’s bothering you, sooner rather than later.”

Victor’s eyes burned.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I never - I never wanted to frighten you.”

“I know it wasn’t meant maliciously,” Sherlock assured. “Nonetheless, it has been unsettling. Please, Victor.”

Victor sagged, his shoulders slumping as defeat washed over him. 

“All right,” he said quietly. “But - let’s sit down for this.”

He pretended to himself, for a moment, that it was because he wanted Sherlock to be sitting when he delivered the news. In reality, though, it was as much for himself as it was for Sherlock. He was weak and unsteady on his feet, and he didn’t know how much longer he could remain upright. When Sherlock offered his arm, Victor took it gratefully, and Sherlock led him to the privacy of the sitting room.

\----

It was midnight before the children went to bed. 

Bill and Todd turned in first, and Timothy shortly afterwards. To be precise, Timothy fell asleep on the sofa in the parlor, a combination of too much activity and too many beers hitting him all at once. Victor snorted to himself when he came upon the sight. Even Sherlock managed the shadow of a smile, though he was still reeling from Victor’s news. He picked up a blanket off a nearby chair and draped it over Timothy’s still form. Once, years ago, they would have considered moving him to his bed. But at nineteen, Timothy was too big for either of them to manage. And anyway, the sofa was comfortable enough for one night.

“We’ll tell him later,” Victor whispered. He felt the pressure of Sherlock’s hand on the small of his back - a comforting, grounding weight. “After all the celebrations. When it’s just the three of us.”

“All right,” Sherlock said softly. “Whatever you like. Come on; your father wants a word.”

They returned to the sitting room, where Victor had delivered his news just a few hours before. William and Gloria were seated before the fire, in separate armchairs. Victor sat on the sofa facing them, and Sherlock joined him after shutting the door. 

“I am sorry, Victor,” William began finally, “that you had to find out like that.”

“I’m sorry I found out at all,” Victor said tightly. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was just trying to spare them -”

“Were you and Mother actually married?” Victor bit out. “Or was that a lie, too?”

William shook his head. “No. We were married. Everything you know about your mother and me is true. I had thirty extraordinary years with her. It’s complicated, with Sarah and Katherine -”

“Don’t,” Victor said shortly. “I don’t want to know. I’m tired of the excuses, Dad.”

William was quiet for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said at last, “for not telling Sarah…”

He trailed off. Victor snorted and shook his head. 

“I didn’t do it for you,” he said shortly. “Timothy, for God only knows what reason, loves spending time here. He loves his cousins; he loves _you_. I’m not about to take that away from him. So we’ll keep up this farce - for _his_ sake.”

Victor rubbed the back of his neck wearily, exhaustion weighing heavily on him. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” he said finally. “I think it’s best for all involved if we cut this visit short. We’ll be in London through the New Year in case you need anything, but don’t bother contacting me unless it’s an emergency. I’ll keep you posted about my condition as updates are available, but other than that, I think it’s best that we all keep our communications to a minimum for the time being.”

“Victor, please don’t do this,” William said quietly. Victor felt his eyes prickle.

“I am so damn tired of it all, Dad,” he said bitterly. “I’m tired of the lies and the blows… I’m tired of my life being upended every time I talk to you. Life - life is too damn short for me to spend it trying to play a role in your little charade. I won’t tell your girls about you and Mother… but I also won’t actively participate in this production. I’m done. Please respect that.”

“All right.” It was Gloria who spoke, and they all turned to look at her. “He’s right, Bill. You’re asking too much of him. And maybe - maybe he has a point. The girls should know -”

“No,” William said sharply, and Victor’s heart clenched. 

“I wish you were as willing to spare me pain as you are the two of them,” he said bitterly, and William flinched as though struck. Gloria’s mouth twisted.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never wanted… _this_ to be the outcome.”

“I don’t know what other outcome you expected when you climbed into bed with a married man,” Victor said tonelessly. “But I appreciate the thought. We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning. Don’t worry about getting up to see us off. I think it’s best if we said our goodbyes here.”

His father was right about one thing - love made very little sense. There was no logic to it, no reason why he should be so furious at his father and Gloria and yet able to embrace them both in farewell. Gloria kissed his cheek before leaving the room. William held him tightly for several seconds, and when Victor pulled away, he dropped a kiss on top of Victor’s head. 

“I love you,” he said earnestly. 

“I know. Love you, too, Dad,” Victor said. He extracted himself from William’s grip and stepped away, and Sherlock got to his feet. William shook his hand.

“Take care of him,” William said, and Sherlock nodded.

When William had gone, Victor turned to Sherlock. The weight of all that had happened in less than forty-eight hours suddenly caught up with him, and he sank onto the sofa again. Sherlock didn’t move. 

“I’m sorry,” Victor said quietly. “I should have told you right away.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said abruptly. “You should have.”

He sat down next to Victor and stared into the cold fireplace. “But I understand why you didn’t.”

Victor reached for his hand, and Sherlock allowed him to hold it. After a few moments, he squeezed back.

“I’m going to have to go into hospital when we get home,” Victor said dully. 

“I know.” Sherlock rubbed his hand. “You’ve told your employers.”

Victor nodded slowly. “I had to. I was on the job when the symptoms first started exhibiting themselves. I ended up in the hospital about a month before the diagnosis.”

“You told me that was dehydration.”

Victor grimaced. 

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock stroked a thumb across the back of Victor’s fingers.

“Gold or silver?” he asked suddenly. 

“What?”

“Would you prefer gold or silver for a ring?” Sherlock asked. “Or something else entirely?”

“I -” Victor stopped, stunned. “I didn’t think - you meant it?”

“Of course I meant it. Why would I say something that I didn’t mean?”

“I thought you just wanted me to talk.”

Sherlock gave a quiet huff. “Well, yes, I did, but I wouldn’t make such a promise if I had no intention of going through with it. At least, not to you.”

Victor was quiet for a moment.

“Silver,” he said at last.


	2. Timothy

Timothy had been around Sherlock and Victor long enough to know that the two of them could conduct entire conversations in complete silence. 

Usually, he found it fascinating, and sometimes even amusing. But right now, at seven in the morning, it was simply irritating. 

“What the hell is going on?” he asked finally from the back seat of the car. He’d been woken by Sherlock at six and told that they were going to be leaving Buckland Hall for London within the hour. No explanation had been given - not that Timothy particularly minded, as he much preferred staying at Baker Street to the mansion that had been Victor’s childhood home. 

But twenty minutes of watching Victor and Sherlock exchange looks, especially at this early hour, was simply aggravating. 

“Change of plans,” Victor said simply. “William and I had a bit of a disagreement.”

“Because of what Sarah said?”

Victor sighed slowly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he admitted finally. “I’m sorry. I know you were having a good time.”

Timothy shrugged, and then yawned. “I don’t really care. Just, next time, can I at least sleep in before we storm off?” 

Sherlock snorted, and even Victor managed a weak chuckle.

They stopped for breakfast. Victor nursed a cup of coffee but didn’t eat, which seemed to irritate Sherlock. They had another one of those silent conversations while Timothy stirred sugar into his own coffee, but it didn’t amount to anything. Victor was the only person, it seemed, that Sherlock couldn’t get to do what he wanted. Victor watched the two of them eat, or sometimes stared out the window. He seemed distracted today, but Timothy couldn’t say why. 

“I told Victor that you wanted to visit Pentonville,” Sherlock said abruptly at one point. Timothy glanced at Victor, who gave him a weak smile.

“It’s all right, Tim,” he said gently. “I’m sorry I’ve never asked you. It’s a reasonable thing to want.”

“Their first round of visiting hours are from nine to eleven,” Sherlock went on. “We could stop by on our way to Baker Street. Would you like that?”

Timothy smoothed his hands on his trousers. His mouth was dry and his palms were suddenly clammy. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I - yeah. I want to see him.”

Victor nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

 

The visiting centre at Pentonville was a long, low building situated next to the prison. 

They surrendered all of their personal belongings, except for their mobiles, and were screened by three burly security officers. They were escorted inside the visiting area and instructed to wait; Christopher was going to be brought out to them momentarily. 

A dozen tables were scattered across the room, each of them with four chairs set up around them - three for visitors, and one for the prisoner. 

Timothy chose a table in one corner of the room. Victor sat down next to him and Sherlock across. 

“You okay?” Victor asked. Timothy swallowed hard and nodded, though his hands were clammy and he was beginning to sweat. “Relax, Tim. It’s okay. It’ll be fine.”

“Easy for you to say,” Timothy said. His nerves felt frayed. Why had he thought this was a good idea?

The door opened then, and they all looked up. 

“We’ll be over there,” Victor said, nodding to a table on the other side of the room, “if you need anything.”

Sherlock squeezed his shoulder, and then they both moved away as Christopher was led into the room. 

Timothy had steeled himself for this moment, but even months of mental speculation and preparation weren’t enough to prepare himself for seeing his father for the first time since the night of his arrest. 

Christopher Bowers had aged at least fifteen years in the last five. He was completely bald now, and hard lines framed his mouth and were stamped at the corners of his eyes. He had lost weight, and his shoulders were stooped. He walked slowly over to the table, and Timothy was torn between standing to greet his father and wanting to remain in his seat, with as much distance between them as possible. 

He was indecisive for too long, and Christopher sat down across from him before Timothy could get up. 

“Timothy,” he greeted after a moment. His voice was flat.

“Hey,” Timothy breathed finally. He cleared his throat and managed, “Er… hi, Dad. Um. Happy Christmas.”

Christopher inclined his head. “Happy Christmas.”

His voice was without inflection. Timothy didn’t know what he had been expecting, so feeling disappointed should have been irrational. Right?

“I’m - um. How have you been?”

Christopher snorted. “I’m in prison, son. What kind of bone-headed question is that?”

Timothy flinched.   

“Sorry,” he said. He cursed himself for how meek his voice sounded, and cleared his throat. “I - um. I just started at Cambridge this year.”

Christopher snorted. “I’m sure Victor loved that.”

Timothy frowned. Victor had been ecstatic, and even Sherlock had been excited - his version of excited, at least. Oh - Christopher was jealous. Timothy swallowed. 

“We moved back to America,” he said, plunging on. “After - everything. Sherlock came with us. We moved to the farmhouse in Virginia - the one you and Mum owned. They still live there, I mean. I’m here, obviously. They’ve got the horses. Two - two mares. They’re beautiful. And -”

“Timothy,” Christopher said finally, his voice flat and his face blank, “why are you telling me this?”

Timothy swallowed hard.

“Because you’re my dad,” he said finally. “You’re my dad, and I thought you might like to know.”

“To be perfectly honest, I don’t particularly care,” Christopher said simply, and Timothy’s stomach bottomed out. “I know what you’re trying to do, Timothy, but the fact remains that nothing has changed. You are not Elizabeth, and you will never be able to bring Elizabeth back, so I don’t particularly want anything to do with you. If only you’d -”

Christopher shook his head sadly, almost as if he was disappointed in Timothy. “If the plan had gone through that night, my public image would have been restored. I’d have started a new life. Instead, I am trapped in this hell hole, and it’s all thanks to that meddling arse over there. You are a reminder of all my failures. I don’t wish to know you. It’s probably best if you don’t come back again.”

Christopher got abruptly to his feet and strode towards the door. The officer keeping watch escorted him out. 

Timothy couldn’t move; couldn’t breathe. He felt his face grow hot; felt the curious stares of the other visitors. 

“Tim.” Victor was suddenly at his side, and then Sherlock was there, too. “What happened?”

Timothy woodenly repeated his father’s words. 

“Don’t, Sherlock,” Victor said warningly as Sherlock made to rise. “There’s nothing you can do.”

To Timothy, he said, “I’m so sorry.”

Timothy nodded absently. He pushed himself to his feet, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be miles away from this place.

“Come on,” he said abruptly. “Let’s get out of here.”

\----

They finally made it to Baker Street just as a nearby clock tower struck noon. Mrs Hudson spent several minutes fawning over both Sherlock and Victor, giving them great long hugs and chattering about all that had happened since the last time they visited. Timothy she saw every other week, and so he was able to escape up to the flat after giving her a quick hug and wishing her a belated Happy Christmas. 

He stayed at Baker Street almost every weekend, because it was nice to get away from Cambridge once in a while. He liked the solitude of the flat, and the reminders of Sherlock and Victor. He loved being out on his own, but at the same time, it was difficult to be an ocean away from his - well, parent and legal guardian, if one were to be technical about it. Victor had formally adopted him some five years ago, not long after their move to America. Some six months after that, Timothy had had a medical scare while Victor was away on business, and in the aftermath of that incident, Victor had appointed Sherlock as his legal guardian.

But _fathers,_ Timothy supposed, was the correct term for the couple who had seen him through the rest of his teenage years. The word fit like a glove, though he did not consciously think of them that way. Victor had been many things to him throughout his life - guard; guardian; brother; mentor and parent. And Sherlock… well, to be honest, Timothy hadn’t known what to make of Sherlock at first. He’d been so numb from his brother’s death and his father’s betrayal that Sherlock had only registered on the very periphery of his life in the first few months after they moved. Sherlock had been Victor’s lover, and it didn’t entirely register with Timothy that Sherlock was there to stay until about three months after they moved to America.

But over the years, Sherlock had filled in the cracks and gaps that Victor couldn’t. He was firm where Victor tended to be lenient, and he was downright mischievous where Victor was inflexible. Victor was the one who had comforted Timothy after nightmares, but Sherlock was the one who could commiserate with Timothy over rotten fathers. They hadn’t got along at first, Sherlock and Timothy, but now Timothy couldn’t imagine a life without him any more than he could a life without Victor. 

Timothy dropped his bags in the room upstairs and returned downstairs to find Victor in the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea. Sherlock was washing up in the bathroom. Their bags were in the main room. 

“We’re going over to visit John and Mary a bit later on,” Victor said. “You don’t have to come with, but I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

“I’ll come,” Timothy said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t really want to stay here alone.”

Victor touched his cheek briefly. 

“It’s so good to see you,” he said, and if Timothy didn’t know better, he’d have said that Victor’s eyes were shining. “You know Christopher is wrong, right? You didn’t ruin anything. He’s sick, Tim, and you don’t deserve any of that.”

Timothy tried to diffuse the thick atmosphere with a dry joke. “Think you’re a bit biased, though. You’re supposed to like me. It’s your job.”

Victor snorted and pulled Timothy against his side, wrapping him in a loose hug.

“Love you, sport,” he said gruffly, dropping a kiss on Timothy’s head. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah, Pop, I do.” Timothy hugged him back and then pulled away. Victor ruffled his hair and finished fixing his tea. Sherlock joined them then, and he cast a critical eye over them both.

“Victor,” he scolded lightly as he deduced the affection that had passed between them. Victor rolled his eyes.

“What? He’s my kid, and I haven’t seen him in months. I’m allowed to do this. And he can’t complain. It’s the rules.”

Sherlock exchanged a look with Timothy, who laughed. 

“I’ll save Victor the trouble of asking this, then,” Sherlock said as he poured himself a cup of tea, “seeing as he probably wouldn’t be able to get through it without shedding tears. We’re getting married on Thursday, and he wants you to stand up for him.”

Timothy stared at them, blinking stupidly. “Married? Since _when_?”

“Er - since yesterday,” Victor said sheepishly. “I’m sorry it’s so soon, sport, but we don’t know the next time everyone’s going to be in the same place together. It was kind of a spontaneous decision.”

Timothy couldn’t help the grin that split his features. “Yeah, of course! That’s brilliant! Wow. I never thought you two would get _married_.”

He hugged Victor on impulse, and then Sherlock afterwards. Sherlock gave a dry chuckle but indulged him; when they pulled apart, he mock-glared at Victor and muttered, “He gets that from you, you know.”

“And I shan’t apologise for it.” Victor drained the rest of his cup of tea. “When are John and Mary expecting us?”

“Not until dinner,” Sherlock said, and Victor nodded with relief.

“I need to have a lie-down,” he said. He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and moved past him towards the bedroom. “Wake me in a couple of hours.”

Sherlock shot Victor’s retreating back a look of concern, but murmured, “Of course.” 

“He’s not good with the whole traveling thing, is he?” Timothy asked, pouring himself a cup of tea. Traveling always seemed to hit Victor harder than the two of them, and it usually wiped him out for a couple of days. 

“Not really,” Sherlock said, though his features were unexpectedly shadowed. Timothy shrugged and moved out into the main room; Sherlock followed. 

“Oh,” Timothy said suddenly as he caught sight of a stack of letters on the mantel, “I forgot to tell you. These - er, well, they’re for you.”

He removed Sherlock’s knife and then handed over the stack of letters.

“Getting more frequent,” he observed carefully. “I think one comes every couple of weeks, now.”

Sherlock flipped through the envelopes. They were all addressed to him from Daniel Holmes, his biological father and someone he hadn't spoken to in decades. Timothy assumed Sherlock was looking at the postage, the handwriting, the way the envelopes were sealed. He knew that Sherlock pulled all kinds of information from mundane details. But what he was actually observing, Timothy couldn’t tell.

After several minutes of silence, Sherlock finally asked, “Timothy, why did you want to visit Christopher?”

Sherlock had stopped referring to Christopher Bowers as ‘your father’ in front of Timothy years ago. Timothy didn’t know if he was trying to help him put distance between them… or if Sherlock didn’t want to think of Timothy as having come from that man. 

“I don’t know,” Timothy said quietly. “I just - it’s been five years…” 

He trailed off. In a way, he envied Sherlock, whose own father spent years trying to keep in touch with his son. Sherlock refused to have anything to do with the man, but at least he had the knowledge that there was a parent out there who was thinking about him. Who wanted to be a part of Sherlock’s life.

Timothy hadn’t heard from his own father - from Christopher - in over five years. 

“You were looking for closure,” Sherlock said. He looked almost perplexed. 

“Aren’t you?” Timothy asked. 

Sherlock walked over to the fireplace. He stared down into the flames for a few moments and then, one by one, he dropped the letters onto the burning logs. 

“This is my closure,” he said after a moment. “I will not give him a voice. He doesn’t deserve the chance to try to explain himself. It would be an insult to my mother’s memory if I even for a moment decided to listen to him. To do so implies that he has something legitimate to say; an excuse that justifies his actions.”

“At least he wants to talk to you,” Timothy muttered quietly.

“You put too much stock in blood relations,” Sherlock retorted. 

Timothy snorted quietly. “It’s just - Mum and Anthony are dead. That’s bad enough. It’d be nice - it’d be nice to at least have a living parent who cares about me. That’s all.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted and a look of sorrow came over his face. Timothy, who didn’t feel like continuing the conversation, retreated to his room and stayed up there until it was time to leave again.

\----

John and Mary still lived in the same house they had moved to shortly after their wedding five years ago, only now there was an addition to their family - two-year-old Claire. Timothy was the one she recognised, because he visited John and Mary relatively frequently and had even served as babysitter when their usual choice was busy. The blonde-haired child went barreling into his legs as soon as John opened the door and she caught a glimpse of who was there, and Timothy hoisted her up and placed her on his hip. 

“Ah, someone’s boyfriend is here,” John said with a wink. Timothy rolled his eyes, and John confided to Sherlock and Victor, “She’s absolutely in love with him. His was the first name she ever said, did he tell you that? Happy Christmas, by the way.”

He hugged Sherlock and shook hands with Victor. Mary came out of the kitchen and embraced all three of them, and they settled in the main room. 

Timothy saw enough of John and Mary that he didn’t have much to catch them up on. Sherlock and Victor were the ones they hadn’t seen in months, and so he left the four of them to their conversation. He sat on the floor with Claire, and she babbled at him happily, her sentences a mix of real words and baby nonsense. She gleefully showed him all of her new toys, and he even got roped into playing dolls with her. 

She was a cute kid, Timothy had to admit. He wasn’t desperate for one of his own, by any means, and always appreciated the fact that he could hand her off to her parents when she was fussy or hungry. But there was something refreshing about her wide-eyed innocence, and the fact that she took to him without question. She knew nothing of his past, or his family. She loved him simply for himself. 

John and Mary were good parents, which probably helped. Timothy couldn’t help the occasional pang that struck him in the chest when he allowed himself to think along those lines. Claire had two parents who not only loved each other, but also her. She didn’t have a father who loved her mother so obsessively that he would go on a murderous rampage in the event of her death. 

Then again, most people didn’t. 

“Having fun, sport?” Victor asked when Timothy finally joined him on the sofa. John and Mary had gone into the kitchen to finish preparing lunch, and Sherlock had joined them. He reached over and ruffled Timothy’s hair. “She’s quite taken with you.”

“She sees a lot of me.” 

Claire pulled herself to her feet using the leg of a nearby table and tottered over to the sofa. She latched on to Timothy’s leg and stared up at him imploringly. 

“Here, I’ll take her off your hands for a bit.” Victor leaned over and opened his arms. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Claire went willingly into his arms, and he hauled her up onto his lap. She chattered at him about her Christmas, repeating the same stories she had told Timothy, and Victor listened raptly. For a man who had never raised a child from birth, Victor was a natural father. It was as though he had been doing this all his life, and Timothy felt another unexpected pang.

The toddler eventually talked herself into exhaustion, and soon after that she began to get fussy.

“Do me a favour, sport,” Victor said, gently rocking Claire as she squirmed in his arms, “and see how long it’s been since she’s eaten?”

Timothy got up and went over to the kitchen. The door separating it from the main room had been closed except for a crack, and he caught a snatch of hushed conversation. Sherlock was talking to John and Mary, but his voice was pitched low, in the manner that indicated was taking them into his confidence.

“...cure is a realistic goal for ALL,” John was saying as Timothy approached. “Do you know how early they caught it?”

“He’s not been forthcoming about any of the details,” Sherlock replied. “He might very well not know anything. That’s quite like him - he doesn’t want to deal with this right now, so he won’t. When we get back -”

Timothy rapped on the door, and silence descended in the kitchen. He slid it open sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just - Claire’s getting restless. Victor thinks she might want food?”

“Oh! I completely lost track of the time,” Mary said, looking up from the pot she was stirring. “John, dear, could you take care of her?”

John was already moving to do so, but Timothy held up a hand.

“Actually, I think Victor’s rather enjoying himself,” he said. “I don’t think he’d mind feeding her. If you don’t, that is.”

John gave him a grateful smile and went to fetch Claire’s food. Timothy pulled over her highchair to the sofa, and it took the two of them to get the upset toddler settled into it properly. 

“She might just be tired,” Victor said, a frown creasing his features. “But she just won’t settle. Thanks, Tim.”

Timothy sat on the sofa again and watched Victor feed Claire. She ate about half the jar of peach-flavoured baby food before beginning to fuss again. Victor capped the food and set it aside. He swept a thumb over Claire’s teary cheeks before lifting her from the highchair and settling her back in his arms.

“Little one’s had a long day already,” he said softly. He bounced her, and she started to calm. “She must be exhausted. All these different faces…”

Eventually, Claire fell asleep against Victor’s chest, and Timothy went to fetch her favourite blanket.

“Thanks, sport,” Victor said softly, and he draped it over Claire’s sleeping form. They sat in silence for a while, watching the sleeping child. Victor rubbed a broad hand absently over her back, and once dropped a kiss on her head. 

“You used to do this, too,” Victor said suddenly. “Fall asleep on me, I mean.”

Timothy looked at him, bemused. “I did?”

“Yeah. Your mum was a good deal more lenient than your dad. When it was just us, she sometimes had me hold you while she completed chores or if she just needed a break.” Victor gave a rueful smile at the memory. “I even got to feed you, sometimes. And I became an expert at changing nappies.”

Timothy reached over and ran a finger down Claire’s cheek.

“You should’ve had one of your own,” he said quietly. “Why didn’t you and Sherlock have children?”

Victor looked at him, surprised, but before he could say anything, the kitchen door slid open and Sherlock stepped out. He went over to the fireplace and set about lighting it. Timothy hadn’t fully registered it until now, but the room was chilly. 

“Sherlock,” Victor said after a moment, “Timothy wants to know why we didn’t have children.”

“Because Victor knew I would experiment on a baby and he would have none of it,” Sherlock answered promptly. He added two more logs and arranged them in the grate. 

“You experimented on _me_ ,” Timothy said in mock-indignation. Sherlock flipped the poker around in his hand and tapped Timothy on the leg with the blunt handle.

“That was supposed to be _our secret_ , remember?” he scolded, but his eyes were dancing. Victor glowered at him.

“What did you do to him?” 

“Oh, nothing.” Sherlock turned back to the fireplace and began stuffing newspaper between the logs. “Just the occasional experiment with behavioural modification. Mild stuff. And he turned out just fine, see?”

Timothy laughed, and Victor rolled his eyes. Claire sniffled in her sleep, and Victor rocked her for a moment until she settled down again. 

They had dinner not long after that. Claire woke up from her nap just in time for the meal, but she refused to be separated from Victor, and so he ate with her perched on his knee. 

Sherlock and Victor had brought gifts for the small family. Mostly, they were for Claire - Victor was known for spoiling his godchildren mercilessly - but a couple were for John and Mary. Timothy, warmed and numb by the wine from dinner, sat through the gift exchange in a happy daze, smiling where appropriate and letting the conversation wash over him. A couple of times it occurred to him to ask Sherlock who it was who had leukemia - he’d taken a couple of basic medical courses out of general interest, and he knew what ALL stood for. But it was probably someone from back home he didn’t know anyway - perhaps a cop buddy of Victor’s - and so he let it slide. 

He sobered up on the car ride back to Baker Street later on that night, and he toyed with the idea of texting a few of his university friends to see if anyone was up for getting together tonight. Victor and Sherlock probably would be turning in soon, but Timothy was starting to get his second wind. 

But most everyone would be busy with holidays, he reasoned, and his two best friends lived on the other side of the country. Since they had gone home, he wouldn’t be seeing them until the term started up again. 

“Don’t get engrossed yet, Tim,” Victor said when Timothy stretched out on the sofa in the main room and switched on the television. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock had disappeared into the bedroom. He emerged with a thick envelope, which he handed to Timothy.

“This is for you,” he said unnecessarily.

“Think of it as a last-minute Christmas gift,” Victor said with a smile. “We didn’t want to give that to you with my whole family watching. Go on, open it.”

And so Timothy did, breaking the seal with his finger and pulling out several sheets of folded paper. He opened them up and skimmed the contents. It took several moments for the legalese to sink in.

“You’re -” He stopped, licking dry lips. He raised his eyes to Victor’s. “Are you giving me the flat?”

“It was Sherlock’s idea, actually,” Victor said, looking at his partner. 

Sherlock nodded. “You’ve got more use out of it these past five months than we have in the past five years. And the rent’s paid up for the next four years. You won’t have to worry about that for the rest of the time that you’re at university.”

Timothy swallowed hard, stunned and overwhelmed.

“I don’t -” He shook his head. “What if you want to move back?”

“We’re perfectly capable of finding a place. There are plenty of flats in London,” Victor said in some amusement. “Look, Timmy, let us take care of you. All right? That’s what we’re here for.”

“Though we do expect you to get a job,” Sherlock said dryly. “Eventually.”

Timothy snorted. “Why? _You_ never got one.”

He was teasing, and they could see that, but still Victor choked on his glass of water and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“I can just as easily take that gift back, you know,” he said dryly.

“No, you can’t. It’s been signed, see?” Timothy said, holding up the sheets of paper. “Besides, Mrs Hudson likes me.”

“She _used_ to like me,” Sherlock grumbled, but he was fighting a smile. “Take good care of this place. It served me well.”

Timothy nodded. Sherlock dropped a hand on his head as he passed by the sofa and ruffled Timothy’s hair.

“Good,” he said. “I’m off to bed.”

“I’ll be there in a little while,” Victor told him. Sherlock nodded, gave them both a parting wave, and left the room.

Victor pushed himself to his feet and went into the kitchen. Timothy heard him rooting around in the cabinets, and he emerged holding two wine glasses and a bottle of red. 

“So how’s the flat been treating you these past few months?” he asked as he sat down next to Timothy on the sofa again. He poured them each half a glass of wine and handed Timothy his.

“It’s been brilliant,” Timothy said. He could hardly believe the place was his now. He doubted it would feel like anything other than Sherlock’s. “Yeah, really great.”

“There haven’t been any problems?” Victor asked. He took a sip of his drink.

“Well, the heat goes out now and again, and Mrs Hudson’s got some leaky pipes downstairs, but we manage.” Timothy shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yes, you’ve become quite the handyman, haven’t you? Martha was saying that. She’s _thrilled,_ ” Victor said, sounding amused. Timothy took a swallow of wine in order to try to cover up his flush. 

“She’s nice,” Timothy said, and Victor snorted.

“Don’t give me that. She _adores_ you, just like she does your - Sherlock.” Victor covered his near-slip with another swallow of wine.

They fell quiet for a time. Timothy was strongly reminded of another time they had sat like this, side-by-side on a cool summer’s night after Sherlock had gone to bed, conversing over a drink. Only that time, the beverage had been soda, and Timothy had been a week shy of fifteen rather than nearing twenty. He’d been more unsure then, too, of where he belonged, and of his place in Victor’s life. 

“There’s always gonna be you and me,” Victor had told him in a low voice that night, nudging Timothy gently with his shoulder. “You know that, right?”

Timothy hadn’t been able to form words around the knot in his throat; he could barely even swallow his soda, and kept the can clutched tightly in his left hand. Victor had slipped out of his light jacket and draped it across Timothy’s shoulders, and then let his arm rest there, keeping Timothy in a loose, one-armed embrace. 

“I know you and Sherlock aren’t getting along right now,” Victor had continued quietly on that long-ago night, his whole focus on Timothy even though Timothy couldn’t look at him, “and that you’re scared and that everything hurts… but I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re not going to lose me.”

True to his word, Victor had always made time for him, and never once made Timothy feel as though he was any less important than Sherlock. And not five months later, with Victor thousands of miles away on business, Sherlock had been the one who kept a steady watch at Timothy’s hospital bedside, sleeping in an uncomfortable chair and practically snarling at the lab technicians who came to draw Timothy’s blood while Timothy tried to make sense of the world through a haze of pain and misery. 

Timothy finished off his wine before Victor did, but then, he drank more often. Victor, he knew, didn’t drink around Sherlock - and yes, Timothy had figured out long ago that Sherlock had a drinking problem that none of them ever talked about. He knew that Sherlock no longer drank, but that was the extent of it. They never discussed it, not even in passing.

There was a lot that they never discussed. But then again, there were some things that didn’t always need saying. 

“He’s a good dad,” Timothy heard himself say suddenly. “He doesn’t think so, but he is. I didn’t always believe it, mind. I remember sitting there - four, five months after we moved to Virginia - and just thinking… _What the hell did I get myself into?_ ”

Victor refilled Timothy’s glass. “What changed your mind?”

Timothy took a long swallow of the dry wine. He coughed once. “Remember when I shattered my arm?”

Victor nodded solemnly. That was one business trip, Timothy reasoned, that Victor was never likely to forget. 

“It was the first time you’d gone out of town since - everything. Since the confession, the trial, the sentencing, the move… I was about out of my mind with worry when you left.”

“You didn’t let me out of your sight for at least the first three months after our move,” Victor said quietly, and Timothy nodded. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been on you.”

“Yeah. Bit of a baby, wasn’t I?” He didn’t give Victor a chance to contradict this. “And when I landed in hospital, I just - lost it. The pain, the morphine, the stress of the injury, you being hundreds of miles away… I was delirious with it all. I thought the nurses were trying to kill me, and every shadow was a monster. I was terrified.”

Victor looked pained, and so Timothy plunged on quickly.

“And then - all of a sudden, everything stopped. The beasts, the monsters, the terror, it all just _stopped_. And Sherlock emerged out of this fog - I was so drugged up - and ordered everyone away. Just like that. He was… incredible. I’d never been so relieved to see him.”

“I didn’t know this,” Victor said quietly. 

“He just… sat there and talked to me,” Timothy said. He felt a familiar prickling sensation behind his eyes and blinked it away. “He was so calm. At least, that’s what it seemed like. But when the painkillers finally tapered off and I could _see_ him, I saw that he was… terrified. He was scared. For _me_. I never realised he… felt that way. Always thought he believed I was some sort of intruder upon your domestic bliss or whatever.”

Timothy swallowed. “Anyway, he calmed me down, and eventually I stopped fighting the nurses. They got me into surgery, and when I woke up, he was still there. He wouldn’t leave - at least, not until you came home.”

Victor nodded. 

“He loves you, you know,” he said finally. Timothy nodded.

“I know.” He felt his mouth quirk. “In his own way.”

“In his own way,” Victor repeated with a chuckle. “I’ll drink to that.”

Timothy touched the edge of his glass to Victor’s, and then they both took a drink of their wine. Timothy settled back against the sofa and propped his legs on the low table. His eyes fell on the mantel - on the skull he had never had the heart to remove, the penknife, the goblet Sherlock said he had picked up whilst traveling in Tibet. Timothy had memorized the layout of 221B when he was a child and first reading John Watson’s stories. To live here now seemed like an odd dream, even more so than living with Sherlock in America for five years had been.

“Has he ever told you about his years away?” Timothy asked, his gaze lingering on the goblet. He didn’t know the story behind it - hell, he didn’t know how half this stuff had come to be in the flat. But he also found that he couldn’t part with any of it.

Victor took a long swallow of his drink. “Not in so many words.”

“But you know about them.”

“I know more than most,” Victor said. His mouth quirked. “He’s not good with words, that dad of yours. He doesn’t like to talk about it; doesn’t really see the point. It happened, and that won’t change. He talks about it sometimes, but never directly. Always in a roundabout way. I’ve pieced the story together over the years. And what he doesn’t say… I can read on him.”

Timothy arched an eyebrow at him. 

“Really?” he asked. Victor chuckled.

“Sherlock’s not the only one with a keen eye,” he said. “Why do you think we became such good friends at university? I wasn’t like the others. I could see things like he did.”

Victor took a long swallow of wine. They lapsed into silence, and as the quiet descended around them, Timothy became aware of an odd _thwack_ -ing sound coming from Sherlock’s old room. It sounded like a ball being tossed against a wall. 

“Yeah,” Victor said when Timothy mentioned it, “Sherlock does that when he’s nervous.”

“Nervous?” Timothy frowned. “He’s _nervous_?”

“Does that really surprise you?” Victor said with a laugh. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him nervous. Didn’t know he could feel nervous, to be honest.” Timothy reached for the wine bottle. “What’s he got to feel apprehensive about, anyway? You two are practically married as it is.”

“I didn’t tell you this,” Victor said in a low voice, taking the bottle from Timothy and refilling his own glass, “but he doesn’t like speaking in front of people.”

Timothy stared at him, dumbfounded.

“You’re having me on,” he decided finally.

“I most certainly am not,” Victor said, a shade indignantly. 

“He used to talk in front of people all the time!” Timothy said. Victor waved it off.

“That was different. He was working cases or testifying in courtrooms or giving press conferences - which he loathed, by the way, but at least it was related to the work. He’s a dramatic son of a bitch - he can’t resist having an audience to his genius; a bit of theatrics. But a marriage ceremony is entirely different. It’s personal.”

“And he’d go through that for you.”

A brief smile touched Victor’s lips. 

“Yeah,” he said softly. “And you know something? He’d do a hell of a lot for you, too. We both would.”

Timothy nodded to himself, and he gave a brief smile as Victor reached over and ruffled his hair. Moments like this spent with either Victor or Sherlock - or both - tended to feel more bittersweet to him than anything else. While he was grateful for the obvious affection both men bestowed upon him, it also ached to know that he had found them so late in his life. He wished he could have had them always. 

In a way, though, he had had Victor.

Timothy pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the mantel, where he had hidden a small parcel behind a large mask Sherlock had acquired in Argentina some fifteen years ago.   

“I’ve started to go through Mum and Dad’s stuff,” he said, returning to his spot beside Victor. After Christopher had been put away five years ago, Sherlock and Victor had gone with Timothy to salvage what he wanted from Carlisle House. Everything he left behind had been put into storage, and the house had been sold. Victor had given him the keys to the storage facility, and told him to go through it when he was older. Timothy hadn’t wanted anything to do with his family at the time, but now he was grateful for Victor’s foresight. “I found this in some of Mum’s papers. Happy Christmas, I s’pose.”

He handed Victor the package. Victor opened it, and he pulled out the wooden frame Timothy had carefully wrapped three weeks ago. 

“Oh, Tim,” he said after a beat. 

The frame held a black-and-white photograph. In it, twenty-eight-year-old Victor was cradling a baby who was decked out in a striped sailor’s outfit. Victor was beaming brightly at the child, who was staring up at him through wide, shining eyes. It was clear that the photograph must have been taken at a time when Christopher wasn’t present, because Victor had shed the black suit jacket and tie that had been part of his uniform as a bodyguard in the Bowers household, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt had been rolled up to his elbows. He was still wearing his shoulder holster, though, and the ever-present gun was visible. 

“I thought that was Anthony at first,” Timothy said. “But then I saw the date on the back.”

“I remember that outfit,” Victor said with a soft huff of laughter. “You hated it. But your mum couldn’t get enough of it, and she wanted you to wear it all the time. I was trying to make you laugh, see?”

“There are more,” Timothy said. “Not many, but a few. I found them in some of her books. I’m guessing she took them?”

“Yeah,” Victor said. “Like I said, when it was just the two of us - she let me get away with more than she should have.”

He looked at Timothy, his eyes swimming, and added, “And I’m so grateful for that.”

“Yeah,” Timothy said, his voice hoarse, “so am I.”

\----

Sherlock was the first one awake the next morning, which was hardly surprising. He was always up with the dawn, it seemed, and oftentimes he was the last one to go to bed. Timothy wondered if he still kept himself occupied with experiments, or if Victor had finally put a stop to that. 

Timothy wandered downstairs at half-nine, and he collapsed on the sofa in the main room. Sherlock poked his head out of the kitchen and regarded him with a cocked eyebrow. 

“That’s what you get for drinking all that wine,” he scolded lightly. Timothy snorted and buried his head under one of the decorative pillows. His mouth was cotton-dry, and it had taken him two attempts to fully scrub the taste of sleep-sour wine from his mouth this morning. 

“Oh, hush,” Timothy muttered.

“Do you want breakfast?”

“God, no.”

Sherlock chuckled. Timothy heard him go back into the kitchen, where he was cooking breakfast. Timothy could hear the sizzling food, and the roasted smell of fresh coffee wafted out into the main room. 

Timothy dozed on the sofa for a while. His head was pounding, and it prevented him from falling asleep completely, but he also couldn’t muster the strength to move. At one interval of lucidity he noticed dimly that someone had thrown a blanket over him, and later on he became aware of a glass of water and a couple of paracetamol sitting on the table next to him. He took them gratefully, and then downed the glass of water.

“Where’s Victor?” he asked when Sherlock padded out into the living room. He was holding his laptop, a mug of coffee, and a plate of toast, though how he managed all three at once without it turning into a disaster, Timothy didn’t know.

“He’s still asleep. He isn’t accustomed to drinking alcohol anymore.”

Timothy snorted. Sherlock settled at his desk with his computer and food.

“What are you working on?” Timothy asked after several minutes of companionable silence. Sherlock had been steadily pecking away at his laptop. “A new case?”

“The text for the ceremony,” Sherlock said after a heartbeat. “And our vows. Mycroft wants the whole thing by tonight so he can prepare.”

“Victor doesn’t get a say?”

Sherlock held up a sheet of paper he had been consulting. Timothy had to squint, but he eventually recognised Victor’s haphazard scrawl. It filled up the entire page.

“Jesus,” he breathed. Sherlock snorted.

“I asked him for a few ideas. He gave me a manifesto.” Sherlock put the paper back down. “Not to mention that half of it is illegible.”

“Did you expect anything else?”

Sherlock’s look was fond. “No. I suppose I didn’t.”

They were quiet for a time, until Sherlock abruptly said, “I was thinking about our conversation yesterday.”

“Hmm?” Timothy muttered, already half asleep again. He pushed himself gingerly into a sitting position, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and pulling his knees up to his chest. It made him feel like he was ten years old again, but damn it, the room was _cold_. Baker Street didn’t hold heat very well. “What conversation?”

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and went over to the fireplace. He grabbed some newspaper for kindling and set about starting a fire in the grate. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “You wanted to know why Victor and I didn’t have children.”

“Oh,” Timothy said, a slight flush creeping up the back of his neck. “Yeah, don’t worry about that, really. It was a stupid comment.”

“I don’t believe that it was.”

Fire successfully lit, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his trousers. He walked over to the sofa and cupped Timothy’s face in both hands, dropping a kiss on top of his head. 

“We didn’t have children,” he said in a low voice, “because we’ve already got one. And he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us. All right?”

Timothy nodded dumbly, too shocked to think of a reply. Sherlock was never openly affectionate with people - not even with Victor. The most that ever passed between them in public was a chaste kiss, and at home the most Timothy ever saw them do was hold hands whilst sitting together on the sofa. This was new and unprecedented, and he didn’t know what to make of it. 

Sherlock gripped his shoulders with both hands, and Timothy was shocked to see that his eyes were swimming.

“You are _our_ son,” he whispered. “And you always will be. It wasn’t the best of circumstances that brought us together, but we will always be here for you.”

Timothy couldn’t speak. He gave a jerky nod, blinking rapidly, and Sherlock squeezed his shoulders once before withdrawing. 

“Thank you,” he managed after several long beats of silence. 

“You shouldn’t thank me for speaking what’s true,” Sherlock said. “We _do_ care for you, Tim. And I hope you always know that.”

“I’m not your family,” Timothy said, the protest feeble. His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat.

“Maybe not the one I was given,” Sherlock said softly. “But the one I chose.”

He touched his fingers to Timothy’s cheek briefly before moving away into the kitchen.


	3. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> ****
> 
> The_Small_Hobbit informed me some time ago that marriage ceremonies in England can only take place in licensed venues, which I have cheerfully ignored for the purposes of this chapter (sorry, SH). Consider this a blatant and unapologetic Americanization (or, since this takes place ten years in the future, pretend the laws have been relaxed). The quoted passage later on comes from _The Prophet_ , by Kahlil Gibran. The marriage vows/ceremony are a compilation of different secular ceremonies I found around the Internet, tweaked so that they fit Sherlock and Victor (and to suit my needs). If those inaccuracies are going to bother you, read no further.
> 
>  This was written pre-S3, so the scene with Timothy near the end is simply a coincidence that amuses me greatly so I kept it in.
> 
> * * *
> 
> __  
>   
>   
> 

Sherlock could always tell when Victor wasn’t feeling well by the way he slept.

Years of serving on Timothy’s security detail had trained Victor to be a light sleeper, and usually it didn’t take more than Sherlock shifting in his sleep to wake him up. Lately, however, Victor had been sleeping through his alarm, and over the past couple of weeks he hadn’t so much as moved whenever Sherlock rose before him. 

Wednesday morning was one such occasion, and Victor remained asleep even though Sherlock had needed to lift Victor’s arm off his chest in order to actually climb out of bed. Sherlock even managed to get showered and dressed before Victor woke up, which was highly unusual. 

“I’m going to see Lestrade in a bit,” Sherlock said quietly as he noticed Victor start to stir. He leaned over him and kissed his temple.

“Don’t forget the presents,” Victor murmured groggily.

“I won’t. Did you want to come?”

“I do,” Victor croaked, “but I don’t think I can, Sher.”

“I’ll give them your regards.” Sherlock swept a hand across Victor’s forehead. “You have another fever.”

“I know.”

Sherlock brought him water and paracetamol. Victor fell asleep again shortly thereafter, and Sherlock scribbled a note for Timothy that he left on the kitchen table. 

Lestrade and Sally Donovan lived in a house that was ten minutes from Baker Street. They had moved there shortly after the birth of their first son.

“It’s open!” Sally called to him when Sherlock rang the doorbell. He opened the door and stepped into the house, and was nearly bowled over by a dead weight that slammed into his legs. 

“Uncle Sherlock!” Thomas Lestrade said gleefully. His younger brother Aaron came around the corner just then, and he ran down the short hallway as fast as his three-year-old legs would allow.

Sherlock bent to embrace Thomas and catch Aaron, and then he straightened, sweeping both boys into the air and settling them on his hips. They shrieked in delight, and Sherlock chuckled despite the twinge of pain in his lower back. The boys were getting too big; he wasn’t going to be able to do this for much longer. 

Sally appeared just then, and she walked down the hallway to greet him. 

“Where’s your better half?” she asked. She took the bag he was carrying from his left hand, allowing Sherlock to adjust his grip on Aaron.

“Asleep,” Sherlock said. “He - er - caught a cold.”

“Victor’s sick?” Lestrade asked as he also came around the corner. 

“I’m afraid so. He wishes he could have come.” Sherlock felt a smile touch his lips. “Hi, Greg.”

“Happy Christmas,” Lestrade greeted warmly. He pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace, boys and all, and then stepped back to look at him properly. “God. Look at you. America seems to be treating you well. Are you _tan_?”

“You should have seen me three weeks ago. I was pulling off a fairly good impression of a tomato.”

Lestrade laughed, clapped him on the back, and led the way into the main room. Sherlock deposited Thomas and Aaron on the sofa with some relief. He ruffled their hair and then took a seat in the armchair opposite. Sally set the large gift bag by his chair and then settled on the nearby settee with Lestrade. 

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” Lestrade said, though there was a smile in his voice. “These two are spoiled rotten as it is. _And_ Thomas has just had a birthday on top of it all.”

“I’m four!” Thomas announced proudly. Sherlock winked at him.

“There’s no stopping Victor, and you know it,” Sherlock said to Lestrade. “You best count your blessings we don’t live on the same continent anymore. Distance and shipping costs prevent him from properly spoiling his godchildren. You and John would never see the end of him if we still lived in London.”

“Presents now?” Aaron interrupted, looking hopeful, his brown eyes wide as he stared imploringly at Sherlock. His parents laughed, and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle as well.

He dutifully distributed the gifts. Despite his gentle ribbing of Victor, he had also purchased presents for the boys. They tore into the wrapping with vigor, emerging with brightly-coloured toys that were guaranteed to entertain them for hours on end - and drive their parents up the wall.

The boys scampered off to play with their presents. Sally thanked Sherlock with a kiss on his cheek, and then she stepped into the kitchen to fetch them some drinks.

“Before I forget, Mycroft dropped this off earlier,” Lestrade said. He picked up a box off a nearby table and tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it deftly. “What do you think?”

Sherlock felt a smile tug at his lips as he opened the box and surveyed the twin silver rings that lay inside. 

“I suppose Mycroft is useful for something after all,” he said, and Lestrade gave a bark of laughter. He flipped the box closed and handed it back to Lestrade. “You’ll bring them tomorrow?”

“Of course. God. Who’d have thought it? You, getting _married_.”

Sherlock grinned at that for a moment, but his face fell when he remembered the circumstances. He didn’t rally quickly enough, and Lestrade caught his expression.

“What is it?” he asked. Sally came out of the kitchen then, holding two coffees in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She handed Sherlock his tea and then settled next to Lestrade on the sofa. She gave him his coffee and then took a sip from her own mug.

“Nothing,” Sherlock tried, and Lestrade gave him a look.

“Nice try,” he said. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be able to keep this from Lestrade; that denying that anything was wrong would ultimately prove fruitless. Besides, he had already told John last night.

But John often delivered useless platitudes in the wake of bad news, and Sherlock had - for once - needed to hear them. Lestrade would be sympathetic, but he wouldn’t say the words Sherlock wanted so desperately to be true, because he couldn’t guarantee them.

_ He’s going to be all right _ .

“It’s Victor,” Sherlock said after a moment. “When I said he was sick…”

He trailed off, but Lestrade knew where this was going. His face turned grave. 

“What’s happened?” he asked quietly. 

“It’s not a cold,” Sherlock said unnecessarily. “Victor was -”

He stopped, cleared his throat, and then finally said, “He was diagnosed with leukemia two weeks ago.”

“Oh, no,” Sally whispered. Lestrade blinked at Sherlock in surprise for a moment. 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, though he plainly knew that Sherlock wasn’t. “How bad?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “I don’t know how early they caught it, and he won’t tell me how bad it is. I think maybe he doesn’t know himself; he wants to wait until after this trip to find out. But that kills me, Greg. Not knowing.”

“I know,” Lestrade said gently. “But that might be what he needs right now - a little bit of ignorance. That’s why you’re having this marriage ceremony so quickly, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. “He wants to do this while he’s still healthy. Relatively healthy, at least. For the most part, he can function as though there’s nothing wrong with him. It won’t be that way for much longer.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “If I have to live without him again…”

“No. Don’t start thinking like that, Sherlock, or you’ll never pull yourself out of that rut,” Lestrade said firmly. “You don’t know anything yet, so it’s useless to speculate. Does anyone else know?”

“Victor’s father does,” Sherlock answered. “Other than that, no. He wanted to wait until after the holidays to inform everyone.”

“And how are you holding up?”

Sherlock shrugged. “We’ve been so busy… I haven’t had a chance to think about it.”

He dropped his eyes to his tea. “I don’t know how we’re going to tell Timothy.”

Thomas ran over just then and pulled himself up into Sherlock’s lap. 

“ _Thomas_ ,” Lestrade said in some exasperation. “No climbing on the guests!”

“But it’s Uncle Sherlock,” Thomas said reasonably, and Sherlock snorted. 

“That is a true statement, though how it pertains to the situation, I’m not sure,” Sherlock said dryly. “What is it, Thomas?”

“Daddy says you’re getting married, and that we’re coming to the wedding.”

“That’s right.”

“Does Aaron have to come, too?”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes.”

Thomas pulled a face. According to Lestrade, he was going through a phase where he didn’t want his younger brother’s presence to detract from attention that would otherwise have been bestowed on him. “Why?” 

“Because we’re your godfathers, and we want you there.” Sherlock met Thomas’ gaze steadily. “We want you _both_ there.”

Thomas thought this over for a moment. “Can I bring Hamilton?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. “Who is Hamilton?”

“His elephant,” Sally supplied.

“Oh, I see. Yes, you can bring Hamilton.” Sherlock tapped Thomas on the nose. “But only if he’s quiet. Is he a quiet elephant?”

Thomas nodded solemnly. 

“Why are you getting married?” he asked.

“That’s what people do when they’re in love,” Sherlock replied automatically, parroting a response he had heard from John years ago. 

“Mum and Dad aren’t married,” Thomas said, frowning. He twisted around to look at his father accusingly. “You don’t love Mum?”

Lestrade choked on his coffee, though Sherlock was slightly relieved to realise it was because he was laughing. 

“There are days when I regret not being able to witness Timothy’s childhood,” Sherlock said dryly, handing Thomas off to Lestrade. “And then I am reminded why that is a _very_ good thing. I’ll let you handle that one, Lestrade.”

“Cheers, mate.”

Aaron went down for his afternoon nap not long afterwards. Sally took Thomas out for a walk, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade alone in the main room. 

“Are all your plans in place, then?” Lestrade asked as he came back into the room with his second cup of coffee.

Sherlock nodded. “Much as it pains me to admit it, Mycroft has been invaluable.  We have the rings, as you know. He also will be arranging caterers and procuring extra chairs for all of the guests. And, er, he will be officiating the ceremony.”

Lestrade tried to hide his grin behind his mug and failed. 

“You two are good at playing at not liking each other,” he said, “but when it matters, he’s there for you.”

Sherlock got up and paced over to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the snow-covered houses across the street and the frosted lawns. 

“I _don’t_ like him,” he said finally. “We parted ways many years ago. Blood doesn’t mean everything, Lestrade. But… he was there for me at a time when I needed him most. When I needed to die - when I needed to protect those closest to me - Mycroft assisted. I owe him for that.”

Sherlock sighed. “And on such short notice, he’s the only officiant available.”

There was a pause while Lestrade drank from his mug. The clock in the corner chimed the hour. 

“Is Timothy standing up for Victor?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

“And what’d John say when you asked him?” There was a smile in Lestrade’s voice. “Probably told you it was about bloody time, didn’t he?”

Sherlock snorted softly.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t ask him.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade sounded concerned, “you know he’s going to say yes, right? Those years you were dead - yeah, they were bloody hard on him. Hard on all of us. But he knows you had no choice but to jump, that the snipers forced you off that roof. He’s not angry at you anymore.”

“I know.” Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair. “But I still don’t intend to ask him.”

“You don’t?” Lestrade asked, perplexed. “Why not?”

“There’s something I never told you,” Sherlock said quietly. “Something I never told anyone. I just never - well. People assumed and I just let it be. But I think you should know - John wasn’t the only target that day. The day I fell. There wasn’t just one sniper, Greg, there were three. And one of them was trained on you.”

Sherlock finally turned around. Lestrade was staring at him in utter stupefaction, eyes wide and lips parted. 

“I jumped for you, too,” he said softly. “They were going to kill you, and John, and Mrs Hudson. I couldn’t - I couldn’t let that happen. Losing you….”

Sherlock trailed off, waving a hand vaguely through the air. He turned away again, his heart hammering painfully against the inside of his ribcage.

“John is my friend, but you have always been my… guide,” Sherlock said finally. He went over to the window again. “In the beginning, you knew me even better than I knew myself. I wouldn’t have been able to be there for John if you hadn’t been there for me first. And so I -”

He drew a deep breath and said in a rush, “I want you as my best man.”

A ringing silence followed.

Lestrade got to his feet - Sherlock could tell by the rustle of clothing - and moved to stand behind Sherlock. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock turned around. 

“Yeah,” Lestrade croaked, his eyes over-bright. “‘Course I will, you daft man. Did you really think I’d refuse?”

And before Sherlock could answer, Lestrade pulled him into a crushing embrace.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, his words muffled against Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade cupped the back of Sherlock’s head with one broad hand.

“Anything for you, lad.”

\-----

Victor was in the kitchen when Sherlock returned later that afternoon. He was putting away some shopping, his nose and the tips of his ears still red from his venture out into the cold. Sherlock estimated that he hadn’t been home more than five minutes.

“How do you feel?” Sherlock asked, coming over and putting his hand on the back of Victor’s neck. His skin still felt warm, despite just having come in from outside. Victor gave him a tired smile.

“Got a bit of a fever still, but I’m alright. Took some more paracetamol.”

“Vic -”

“Sherlock.” Victor silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips. “Please. We’re only here for another week. I can handle myself until then. I’m not going to keel over, and if you don’t stop treating me like a fragile leaf, I’m going to kick your arse. Understood?”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, an unbidden smile tugging at his lips. “I’m quaking in my boots.”

“You should be. I’ve trained with the FBI, remember.” Victor smirked at him, and Sherlock huffed. “How were they?”

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and went to hang it up. 

“They missed you,” Sherlock said as he came back into the kitchen. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. “The boys have grown. Here.”

Victor took the mobile, face melting as he flipped through the pictures Sherlock had taken of their godchildren. 

“They’ve grown so much since last Christmas,” he murmured. “Did they like the toys?”

“Yes,” Sherlock assured him. “Aaron in particular couldn’t be parted from his. What havoc have you been causing?”

“Oh, nothing,” Victor said, absently waving a hand while he continued to look through the pictures. “Did a bit of shopping so we’d have some food. Bought a few things for tomorrow. Took some flowers to your mother.”

Sherlock’s chest constricted at that. He hadn’t been able to visit his mother’s grave since the burial over two decades ago. Whenever they came back to London, Victor dutifully took flowers from them both. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly. Victor handed over his mobile and then kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

“Anytime,” he whispered. “Come on. Give me a hand with dinner.”

Timothy had gone to meet some friends, it turned out, so it was just the two of them tonight. Victor’s cooking abilities had markedly improved over the years, and with Sherlock’s help he managed to whip up a decent meal for them both. They ate by firelight in the main room, seated on the sofa, the barest sliver of space between them. Afterward, Sherlock slipped his arm behind Victor and Victor leaned against him, both of them watching the flickering flames. The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. They had known one another for twenty-six years, lived together for the past five, and had never relied on speech. Actions meant more, and each of them could read the other as plainly as though he was nothing more than words written on a page. 

“What are you wearing tomorrow?” Victor asked at one point. 

“I hadn’t thought about it.” Neither of them had been expecting an occasion this monumental, and thus their outfits wouldn’t comply with what social convention called for. Sherlock, who flat-out ignored social convention, didn’t care. Knowing Victor, he didn’t either. 

“You should wear the red shirt.”

“Should I, now?” Sherlock nuzzled the side of Victor’s face and then kissed his temple. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He thought for a moment, and then added, “I like you in the blue. The one you wore for Christmas.”

Victor laughed. “I had a feeling you would end up choosing that one. Good thing I did the washing this afternoon, isn’t it?’

He pushed himself up off the sofa with a groan and then extended a hand down to Sherlock, pulling him to his feet. They went into the kitchen, where Victor began cleaning the dishes from dinner. This was a task he generally preferred to do on his own, mostly because he always contended that Sherlock never did it properly, nor did he put everything away in the correct place. It was also a mindless task that helped him to sometimes clear his thoughts, so Sherlock let him be. 

The morning paper was discarded on the table. It had been brought in but not opened, and Sherlock started to flip through it. In the past, he would have been looking for a sufficiently-absorbing case. In the years since his return from the dead, his observational powers had been dampened by the trauma and mental anguish he had suffered as a result of the fallout from Moriarty’s scheme. He had got better over the years, the new life he had built for himself providing a kind of balm on the open wound. He could observe and deduce, but not like before, and he didn’t take cases anymore. Now, he simply hoped to keep his mind as sharp as possible, and he used the newspapers as a kind of mental exercise. He observed what he could from photographs and bylines, sometimes even reading into the articles more than was there. It was an exercise he performed solely for himself.

“What was Timothy like as a child?” he asked suddenly.

“Hm?” Victor glanced over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“Timothy,” Sherlock said. He pushed the paper aside. “What was he like?”

Victor’s mouth quirked. He turned back to the dishes. “Spending the past two days around children really put you in a mood, didn’t it?”

“I’m curious.”

“You’ve never asked before.” Victor picked up a towel and began to dry off the plates. He turned around and leaned back against the counter, facing Sherlock. “I don’t know, Sherlock. He was quiet. He kept to himself, for the most part. He idolized Anthony. Used to love playing in the snow.”

Victor paused, his gaze suddenly very far away. 

“He got into everything,” he said at last. He set the plate and towel aside. “He was so curious about the world around him. His first word was _why_ , and as soon as he could, he was asking questions. Why was the sky blue? Why did aeroplanes fly? Why did worms come out of the ground when it rained?”

Victor crossed his arms over his chest, his face shuttering.

“I don’t want to leave him.” Victor swallowed, not looking at Sherlock. He added, softer, “Either of you. I don’t want to leave at all.”

The reassurances Sherlock wanted to say got stuck in his throat. Victor passed a hand over his face.

“Tomorrow’s a long day,” he said finally. “I need to turn in.”

Victor went into the bathroom to wash up while Sherlock started laying out their outfits for the ceremony tomorrow. It gave him something to do, as his ability to concentrate on anything more substantial than mindless tasks had been abysmal since Victor’s news. When he finished, he sat cross-legged on his side of the bed, leaned back against the headboard, and shut his eyes, thinking of nothing at all.

“Greg’s bringing the rings, right?” Victor asked as he came out of the bathroom. Sherlock heard the rustle of clothing as he started to change.

“Yes.”

“Did you email Mycroft?”

Sherlock cracked his eyes open wearily and glared at Victor. “Of course.”

Victor shrugged and shucked his trousers. He tossed them in the hamper, and then shed his shirt and did the same. “Well, I don’t know. Sometimes you have the attention span of a butterfly.”

“What do you know about butterfly attention spans?”

“I don’t know; it just sounded good.”

Sherlock snorted and leaned his head back against the wall, continuing to watch Victor. He knew that Victor was attractive, striking in a way that actually made heads turn, but every once in a while the sight of his partner took his breath away. Victor’s hair was mussed from having pulled off his shirt. When he kept it short, it tended to stick up in all directions, but Victor had been letting it grow these past few months, and it simply lay in disarray on his head. When they reunited five years ago, Victor had already been greying at the temples; now, his dark hair was shot through with fine filaments of silver, and they caught the soft light of the nearby lamp. 

Victor walked over to his suitcase to root around for his pyjama bottoms, and Sherlock raked his eyes up his lover’s body. He took in Victor’s muscled calves and the dark hair that covered his legs; the veins that stood out on the tops of his feet and the back of his hands. He noted the muscles of Victor’s shoulders and his well-defined biceps, and the way his underwear clung to the curve of his arse. When he turned away from the suitcase to step into his sleep pants, Sherlock dragged his gaze up Victor’s broad chest and the coarse hair that covered it, more grey than black now. And then there was the trail of hair that started below his navel and slipped beneath his waistband, and Sherlock’s fingers twitched involuntarily as he thought about running them through - 

\- And suddenly Victor was in front of him, and Sherlock started. Victor had his hands on his hips as he stood beside Sherlock’s side of the bed, and he looked down at him in some amusement. 

“You all right there, lover?” he asked, a smirk in his voice. “You look a little... bothered.”

Sherlock uncrossed his legs and stretched them out in front of him. Victor knelt on the bed and crawled up to him on hands and knees, until he was close enough so that Sherlock could cup his face and kiss him. 

Victor could indulge in foreplay for hours, a sharp contrast to Sherlock, who generally was content in getting the deed done quickly and efficiently. He had learned to slow down over the years; to go at Victor’s pace instead of his own, and sometimes it actually proved useful. His own sex drive had always been almost non-existent, and more often than not, their intimacy was one-sided. Not that Sherlock minded, and over the years, Victor had come to accept it as well. But when Sherlock _was_ in the mood, a slow and steady pace was what he needed. 

He tilted his head to the side as Victor trailed open-mouthed kisses across his jaw and then down the side of his throat. Sherlock closed his eyes at the gentle ministrations, the press of Victor’s hot mouth against his flesh quickening his heart rate and starting to send his blood south. Victor unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, and then he undid Sherlock’s belt buckle. Sherlock lifted his hips so that Victor could get his trousers off, and then he kicked them down and away. He lay back against the pillows, clad now only in his boxer shorts and t-shirt, and pulled Victor in for another kiss. 

Sherlock lost track of time after that. Victor’s kisses became deeper, more insistent, and he trailed his hands all over Sherlock’s body. He slipped them under Sherlock’s t-shirt to tease his nipples and slid them underneath Sherlock’s body to squeeze his arse. He ran them down the insides of Sherlock’s thighs and across his stomach, and when he finally cupped Sherlock through his underwear, Sherlock lifted his hips to meet the warm hand, desperate for more friction.

Victor pulled back. His eyes were dark and his lips were glistening, and his chest and neck were flushed with arousal. Sherlock reached between them and palmed the bulge of Victor’s pyjama bottoms, and Victor swallowed hard but held his gaze. He would go only as far as Sherlock let him. 

“What do you want?” he asked in a hoarse voice that sent what remained of Sherlock’s wits fleeing. He bit back a moan.

“You,” he managed, rolling his hips into Victor’s hand. “I want _you_.”

Victor leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and then he pushed himself off the bed, going over to his suitcase to fetch the lube. 

 

In the aftermath, Victor lay with his head resting on Sherlock’s chest. His eyes were closed, his breathing as ragged as Sherlock’s, and he had an arm draped across Sherlock’s middle. Sherlock swiped the back of his free hand across his damp forehead, letting it fall above his head onto the pillow, and shut his eyes. His other arm was wrapped securely around Victor’s shoulders, holding him close. The blankets were tangled around their waists. 

Sherlock wanted to sleep, and his limbs ached for it, but his mind was too restless. At this time a week ago, he had been working on polishing a paper while Victor pulled an evening shift at the station. All had been well, and normal, and the worst he could say about his life was that it was _ordinary_. 

Victor had been sick then. He had been sick for weeks; perhaps even for months. And Sherlock hadn’t noticed any of it. Or had he? There had been Victor’s brief hospitalization, though that had been attributed to dehydration. There had also been the fevers, the exhaustion, the strange bruising… Sherlock hadn’t pieced it together. He should have. 

Victor finally compelled himself to move, and he went to fetch a wet flannel for them both. They cleaned up and dressed again - Sherlock in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, Victor in just a clean pair of boxer shorts. 

“I may drool on you,” Sherlock teased lightly as they rolled together and Victor gathered him into his arms. He didn’t often go shirtless in bed. 

Victor snorted. “I’d be peeling a shirt off in the middle of the night anyway because of those damn night sweats. Figure I’ll save myself the trouble this time.”

Sherlock went very still, his contentment evaporating in the blink of an eye. Victor’s arms tightened around him as he sensed the change.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

“What on Earth for?” Sherlock managed. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out everything but the rise and fall of Victor’s chest and the sound of his heartbeat. “You’re right. It’s perfectly logical.”

But none of this was logical, and none of it was right. Victor couldn’t come back into his life after sixteen years only to leave again five years later, only this time slowly and painfully. It couldn’t happen. It wasn’t _fair_. 

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath, trying to remind himself that they didn’t know anything yet. John was right - if they caught it early enough, Victor was almost assured a complete recovery. It would just take time.

But that didn’t quell the anxiety that had kicked his heart rate up several painful notches, nor did it do anything to ease the invisible force that had constricted his chest and suddenly made it hard to breathe. Victor stroked a hand through his hair, and Sherlock tried to focus on him. He noted the feel of the coarse chest hair beneath his cheek and the spicy scent of Victor’s skin, and the faint body odor that emanated from them both. It calmed him slightly, until an errant thought reminded him that someday, all he might be left with were memories of nights like this, and an empty bed where Victor used to lay. 

Victor’s hand was on his cheek, his thumb sweeping across the skin under Sherlock’s eye, and it was only then that he realised he had let out a choked noise of distress. He shuddered and turned his face into Victor’s chest, as though he could hide the tears that Victor already noticed. 

“Sweetheart.” Victor wrapped both arms around him, and Sherlock trembled. Victor only used endearments like that when the situation was particularly grim, and hearing it now wasn’t helping matters. “Don’t. Please, Sherlock, don’t.”

Sherlock managed a rough, “Sorry,” but he wasn’t having any luck reigning in his composure. Victor buried his face in Sherlock’s hair, his own breathing ragged now. 

“Sherlock,” Victor whispered in a strained voice, “if you can’t do this, I need to know now. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, _if_ it gets better, and if you -”

Victor broke off. Sherlock gripped him tighter, fighting desperately for control. 

“You’re about the only thing keeping me sane right now, you know that?” Victor said. He rubbed a hand across Sherlock’s back soothingly, but Sherlock could feel his fingers trembling. “I have to tell Tim about this, and I can’t bear to break that boy’s heart again, but I don’t have a choice. And when I get back home, I have to deal with this. So I understand if it’s too much. I’d just rather know about it now.”

Sherlock, heedless of the silent tears he couldn’t seem to stop, pushed himself off Victor’s chest and leaned up to kiss him fiercely.

“Don’t be stupid,” he hissed. He cupped Victor’s face, noting that his cheeks were damp as well, and pressed their foreheads together. “Don’t be an _idiot_ , Victor. I’m not going anywhere.”

Victor swallowed hard, and he nodded against Sherlock’s forehead. He wiped his cheeks and then settled Sherlock’s head on his chest again. 

“I’m sorry this is happening,” he said softly, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and kissing the top of his head. The unexpected - and unnerving - show of vulnerability was gone, and Victor had snapped back into caretaker mode. “I love you.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, his voice thick. He cleared his throat and shut his eyes, calm stealing over him as the sudden burst of emotion left him utterly drained. 

And he vowed, as Victor’s gentle fingers lulled him to sleep, that he was never going to weep in front of Victor like that again. 

\----

The next morning passed by in a flurry of hurried preparations. 

Sherlock and Victor rearranged the furniture in the main room so that it was all facing the fireplace. They added chairs from the kitchen for extra seating and then stole down to Mrs Hudson’s in order to borrow some more. 

“Is that everyone?” Victor asked, hands on his hips as he surveyed the room. “John’s family makes three, Greg’s brings us up to seven, Mrs Hudson is eight, Molly is nine, Tim and Mycroft make eleven…”

“And Mycroft, Tim, and Lestrade will be standing for the ceremony, so they won’t require seats.”

“But they will for dinner afterwards.” Victor counted the seats again. “I think we’re good.”

Sherlock nodded. “Mycroft should be here soon with the food. Lestrade is bringing the rings. And -”

“OI! You two need to go get dressed.” Timothy appeared in the doorway, tying his necktie. “It’s almost time!”

“We have an hour, Tim, and they can’t very well have the ceremony without us, can they?” Victor said in bemusement. Timothy flapped his hands anyway, shooing Victor and Sherlock in the direction of the bedroom.

“Go on, get ready! I’ll take care of Mycroft.”

“Best wedding present ever,” Sherlock said dryly, and Victor snorted.

They showered and dressed, chatting all the while, and Sherlock was struck by how very surreal this all was. They were less than an hour from legally cementing their bond, and it felt like any other day. Apart from the quick thrum of nerves that occasionally caused his hands to shake, there was very little that felt momentous about this whole affair. 

“You’re going to be fine,” Victor said quietly. He took Sherlock’s cufflinks from his hands and did up his cuffs for him. Sherlock’s hands were trembling too much to complete the task. 

“I know.”

“It’ll be a quick ceremony.”

“I know.” Sherlock cleared his throat and attempted a bit of dry humour. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, you know.”

“I do.” Victor kissed his cheek. There was a knock on the bedroom door, and they both turned as Timothy stuck his head in.

“We’ve got an audience out here,” he said with a smirk. “You two better make an appearance soon, or people are going to talk.”

“People always do,” Sherlock said, and Victor laughed.

They mingled in the main room with their friends. Victor, who had yet to spend any time with Aaron and Thomas, ended up with both boys perched on his hips while he chatted with Lestrade and Sally. Claire suddenly seemed to have decided that Sherlock was the one she was going to attach herself to today, and she alternated between clinging to his leg and sitting in his arms. 

Mycroft was late, as Sherlock had expected.

“He likes to make an entrance,” he grumbled to Victor, who snorted.

“Who does that remind you of?” he asked dryly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

The mood became subdued and expectant as soon as Mycroft stepped into the flat and slipped off his coat. He was carrying a leather-bound book with a piece of paper tucked between its pages - no doubt the text for the ceremony, which Sherlock had finalized and sent to him the night before. Mycroft didn’t need it, of course. He had probably memorized the entire ceremony, reading and all. But it was good show.

Silently, the majority of the guests settled into their seats. Mycroft took up a spot in front of the fireplace, and Sherlock and Victor stood before him. Lestrade stood to Sherlock’s left, and Timothy to Victor’s right. Mycroft surveyed the guests.

"We are gathered here today,” he began solemnly, “to publicly and lawfully recognise the bond of union shared by Sherlock and Victor.”

Mycroft opened to the designated page of the book he held, and he began to read:

_ “Your friend is your needs answered. He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. And he is your board and fireside. For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace. _

_ When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the ‘nay’ in your own mind, nor do you withhold the ‘aye’. And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; for without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unclaimed. _

_ When you are part from your friend, you grieve not; for that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain. _

_ And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth; and only the unprofitable is caught. _

_ And let your best be for your friend. If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also. For what is your friend that should seek him with hours to kill? Seek him always with hours to live. For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness. And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.” _

Mycroft looked up from the book, turning his attention to Sherlock and Victor.

“Gentlemen, if I could have you face one another,” Mycroft said, and they did so. Sherlock held out his hands, and Victor clasped them. “Sherlock, if you would recite your vows.”

They had written them only the night before, but Sherlock could recall the words as surely as if they were stamped on his skin and ingrained in his bones.

“Victor, I take you to be my partner for life. I take you into my family,” and here Sherlock’s eyes flicked briefly to Timothy, “and take your family as my own. I promise to love you, to honor you, and to do right by you. I promise to savour our good times, and to trust that the bad times will pass.”

Here Sherlock had to stop and clear his throat. Sadness washed over Victor’s face, and Sherlock plunged ahead. “I promise to value our differences as much as our common ground. I will uphold your dignity through all the days of our lives.”

There was an audible sniff from somewhere off to Sherlock’s right. Mycroft turned to Victor.

“Victor, if you would do the same.”

Victor did so, reciting the vows Sherlock had just told him. He managed not to stumble over the vow about the bad times, though he did squeeze Sherlock’s hands tightly in reassurance as he said the words. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, turning back to him, “do you take Victor to be your partner for life, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, in conflict and in serenity, in hardship and in comfort, placing him above all others, from this day forward?”

“I do,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Victor,” Mycroft went on, “do you take Sherlock to be your partner for life, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, in conflict and in serenity, in hardship and in comfort, placing him above all others, from this day forward?”

“I do,” Victor said.

Mycroft looked at Lestrade and nodded. Lestrade stepped forward with the small box of rings, and he opened it up, offering it to Sherlock first. Sherlock plucked the silver ring that was to be Victor’s from the plush velvet and slid it onto his left hand.

“With this ring, I accept you as my husband, now and for all time,” he said softly.

Victor swallowed hard, and Sherlock squeezed his hands bracingly. After a moment, Victor took the second ring from the box and slipped it onto Sherlock’s hand.

“With this ring, I accept you as my husband, now and for all time,” he repeated, and his voice cracked. 

They joined hands again, and Mycroft turned back to his written remarks.

“Sherlock and Victor have chosen to be joined in marriage, and have declared their choice to each other and in the presence of this company. They have given each other their promises, and have made their pledge by giving and receiving rings and by joining hands. Therefore, by the power vested in me by Sherlock and Victor and by the witnesses present here today, I now pronounce you partners for life. You may kiss.”

Victor cupped his face, his ring cool against Sherlock’s skin, and kissed him. Their friends broke into applause, and Victor pulled away with a choked laugh. His eyes were red-rimmed and shining, and he turned around to look at Timothy.

“Come here,” he said gruffly, holding out his arm. Timothy hugged them both. Sherlock wrapped one arm around Timothy and the other around Victor, and they stood there in a small huddle while their friends continued to clap. 

When they broke apart, everyone was on their feet, and Lestrade caught Sherlock up in a fierce embrace. Victor accepted a tissue from Sally, and he laughed while he wiped his eyes. 

“Congratulations, brother,” Mycroft said when Lestrade released Sherlock. He offered his hand, and Sherlock took it. “Mother would have been pleased.”

“I like to think so,” Sherlock said. He caught Victor’s eye, and they grinned at one another. 

The food and drink had all been set up in the kitchen, and everyone slowly filtered through the room, chatting while they filled their plates and poured drinks. Everyone ended up back in the main room, and they arranged the furniture so that the room was more or less put to rights again. 

“I just want to thank everyone for taking the time to come out here today,” Victor said once everyone had settled down with their food and drink. “I know I speak for Sherlock as well when I say that it means a great deal to us that you were all able to come on such short notice, and during a holiday, no less. So, thank you.”

“Speech!” John called, and there were murmurs of assent. Victor held up his hands, laughing. 

“No, no,” he said. “We just wanted something simple and casual. There won’t be any speeches today. Unless Greg has any embarrassing stories that he wants to tell about Sherlock.”

“Would baby pictures suffice?” Mycroft asked, reaching for his mobile. Sherlock glared at him, and he smirked.

“Actually, I have something I’d like to say,” Sherlock said. 

Victor shot him a confused look from across the room. Everyone else turned in their seats to look at him, and for a moment he nearly lost his nerve. 

“I’m not a good man,” Sherlock said to the room at large. He looked at each of their friends in turn. “I’m not a kind man. I am not gentle. I’m not tactful. I’m careless and rude and arrogant, and frankly I lead an absurd life. I have bad days, and I have dark days. But even then, even when I am at my lowest, I find that I am bolstered by one thing. That by my side stands the kindest, most loyal, bravest man in all the world - and that he chose me.”

Sherlock picked up his glass and held it aloft, finally turning to face his husband. “And Victor, I am honoured.”

Victor swallowed visibly. His eyes were red-rimmed, and they glowed in the light from the fireplace.

“Sherlock, the honour is mine,” he whispered finally. He crossed the room and kissed Sherlock, and there was yet another round of applause. 

“All right, everybody eat,” Sherlock said when they broke apart, waving a hand at their guests, and there was a light smattering of laughter before everyone did as requested.

The party went on for hours. Sherlock couldn’t seem to keep from touching Victor. When they stood side-by-side, chatting with the guests, he clasped Victor’s hand or rested a hand on the small of Victor’s back. If they were circulating the room and Victor happened to pass him, they would pause for a brief kiss. And later on, when the party grew more subdued and their godchildren were starting to tire, Victor and Sherlock sat together on the sofa with the three children sprawled across their laps. Victor read to them from a storybook and Sherlock leaned against him, Thomas perched on his lap while Claire and Aaron sat on Victor’s. 

Eventually, the children all fell asleep, and Victor was soon well on his way to joining them. Carefully, Sherlock shifted Thomas off of his lap and set him gently on the sofa next to Victor, who automatically wrapped an arm around the boy. Most of the party had migrated into the kitchen. 

“You’re going to spend your wedding night sleeping, aren’t you?” Sherlock teased lightly. He bent to kiss Victor’s nose. 

“Seems like a grand way to spend it,” Victor murmured sleepily. Sherlock chuckled.

“You should join us in the kitchen.”

“Mm. In a minute.”

Timothy, apparently sensing that the party was starting to wind down, was helping to clean up the main room and kitchen. He was transferring empty dishes from the table to the sink when Sherlock stepped into the kitchen.

“Tim, you were _wonderful_ ,” Mary said as he passed by her, carrying an ornate serving dish. She laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. 

“Thanks,” he said, giving her a quick smile. “Wasn’t very hard, you know. Just had to stand up there.”

“Well, it was so good of you to be there for Victor like that. I’m sure he was thrilled.”

She hugged him, the plate trapped between them, and Timothy leapt backwards in alarm.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologised hastily, angling the sharp edge of the plate away from Mary’s midsection. He looked panicked. “Are you all right? I hope that didn’t hurt the baby. It couldn’t, right?”

“Baby?” John squeaked. Sherlock had never heard John sound so strangled. 

Mary went white. “Where did you hear that from?”

“No one,” Timothy said quickly. “I didn’t hear it from anyone, I just noticed.”

His eyes flicked over the various stunned faces. 

“What did you notice, Tim?” Sherlock asked. Timothy still looked frantic.

“Nothing, it’s just - John brought Mary’s favourite wine. She likes to have white with dinner, and she’s had a glass every time I visit them. But she declined tonight, even though it’s a special occasion and John brought it for her. And whenever someone got too close to her today, she automatically brought a hand up to protect her stomach…”

Timothy trailed off, looking horrified. “Oh, God, you didn’t know, did you? Oh, I’ve mucked this all up. _Shit._ ”

John was still looking dumbfounded. He turned to his wife. Mary had somewhat recovered herself, and she flashed him a tiny smile.

“Er… surprise, dear,” she said tentatively.

“Right, what did I miss?” Victor said in groggy bemusement when he walked into the kitchen a moment later to find that John had swept Mary off her feet and was spinning her in a circle, looking ecstatic.

“Timothy deduced that Mary is pregnant,” Sherlock said, blinking stupidly at Timothy.

“He _what_?” Victor asked, staring at Timothy in astonishment. Timothy shrugged. Victor gave a huff of laughter and turned to Sherlock, squeezing his hand. “He gets that from you, you know.”

Sherlock passed a hand over his mouth, completely at a loss for further words. Timothy had learned something from _him_. He had been reading John’s stories for years, learning and absorbing and _observing_ for ages before Sherlock even entered his life. Sherlock had been influencing him without even being present; his stories, at least, had been there for Timothy at a time when Sherlock wasn’t. 

“Well, at least he picked up something useful,” Sherlock managed finally, dry-mouthed, and Victor snorted while Timothy gave him a tentative smile. 

At that moment, Mycroft appeared in the kitchen doorway. Sherlock suppressed a sigh, not entirely successfully.

“Sherlock, a word,” Mycroft said. Sherlock glared at him.

“Not just now, Mycroft, can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I do, and I don’t particularly care,” Mycroft said bluntly, and Sherlock was unused to hearing that note of finality in his voice. “Outside, if you would.”

Sherlock passed by Timothy on his way out of the kitchen, and he gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze before moving on. 

They stepped out onto the landing, and Mycroft shut the door behind them. He turned to Sherlock.

“I apologize at having to interrupt the celebration, but I received got a call from - “ He stopped. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. I just thought you should know. Father died.”

Sherlock didn’t register the words at first. And then the pieces slotted together. _Father_. 

“Oh,” he said, because what was he supposed to say to that? He hadn’t seen his father since he was twelve. “I see. How?”

“It was a heart attack.”

“So he didn’t suffer,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft shook his head. “Too bad. Is that all?”

“Sherlock -”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said sharply. “I don’t care, Mycroft. I don’t know why you felt as though I needed to know. I don’t know why you felt as though I _wanted_ to know. Especially on a day such as this. If I never think about that man again it will be too soon. Good day.”

He turned on his heel and walked back into the flat. Mycroft didn’t follow, and Sherlock heard the door downstairs slam shut a moment later. 

The party lasted until midnight. Sherlock tried unsuccessfully to get everyone out of the flat by ten, because he could see that Victor’s energy was failing him, but there was always one more story; one more drink. Finally, it was just the three of them, though Victor was half-asleep at that point and Timothy was dozing in an armchair by the fire. 

Sherlock continued the arduous task of cleaning up that Timothy had started, because he knew that his mind would be too restless for sleep and he didn’t fancy the prospect of waking up to this mess in the morning. Washing dishes was a mindless task, at least, and it would hopefully serve to clear his head. 

“Hey.” Victor came up behind him in the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s middle. “What are you doing? It’s gone midnight. Come to bed.”

“I want to clean some of this up, that’s all,” Sherlock said. He twisted around to plant a chaste kiss on Victor’s lips before returning to his task. “You go. You’re exhausted.”

“So are you,” Victor pointed out. “What’s wrong?”

It was useless to lie to Victor, so Sherlock simply said, “Daniel died.”

There was a long pause. Eventually, Victor pulled away. He turned Sherlock around so they were facing one another. 

“What?” he asked. 

“Daniel died,” Sherlock repeated, unsure of what else he could say about it. “Mycroft delivered the news. It was a heart attack.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I assume recently. His last letter to me was postmarked a month ago.” Sherlock shrugged. “Victor, I haven’t seen him in decades. It’s fine.”

“Sherlock -”

“Honestly,” Sherlock interrupted, “I’m _fine_.”

“How can you be? Your _father_ just died.”

“No.” Sherlock took Victor’s hands in both of his, smoothing a thumb over the new ring on Victor’s finger. “My father is the best man I’ve ever known, and he stood at my side today while I married my best friend. Daniel Holmes has nothing on him.”

The worry seemed to melt from Victor’s face, and he squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course, you’re right. God only knows I’m one to talk, considering who I have for a father. Blood relations don’t mean everything.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. But then he felt compelled to add, “Nonetheless, your father _does_ love you. That is genuine.”

“I know.” Victor leaned in, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. He said, softly, “Thank you for today. It means a great deal to me.”

Sherlock wrapped Victor in a loose embrace, and Victor rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. They stood there quietly for some minutes, listening to the tick of the clock mounted on the wall. Sherlock pressed his face into Victor’s hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo and the occasional whiff of his cologne.

“Would you ever consider moving back to England?” Victor asked quietly. Sherlock stroked a hand through his hair. 

“I hadn’t thought about it,” he said quietly.

“It might be something to consider. Thomas, Aaron, and Claire are growing so quickly, and now there’s another on the way,” Victor said. “And in light of… this illness, it might be nice to be closer to everyone. They’re family.”

“That they are,” Sherlock agreed. “Let’s find out what your treatment options are first. Then we’ll discuss what we want to do.”

Victor finally lifted his head from Sherlock’s shoulder and peered at him. “Don’t you have an opinion?”

“I go where you go. I’m not fussed about the particulars.” Sherlock kissed his brow and then added, very quietly, “Just don’t leave me.”

“Never,” Victor said, suddenly fierce. He repeated, quieter, “Never.”

The door to the kitchen slid open just then, and Timothy entered the room. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and gave them both a bleary smile. 

“Was wondering what happened to you two,” he said groggily. “What are you still doing up, hey? Aren’t you a couple of old men?”

“Says the nineteen-year-old who fell asleep before midnight,” Sherlock said, reaching out to ruffle Timothy’s hair. 

“Thanks for today, Timmy.” Victor pulled him into a tight hug. “We appreciated it. You were great.”

“No problem,” Timothy said, his words muffled against Victor’s shoulder. He patted Victor awkwardly on the back. 

“And I just want you to know -” Victor stopped; shook his head. His eyes met Sherlock’s, and Sherlock realised with a sinking feeling what was coming. Victor didn’t want to wait any longer. “I’d never do anything to hurt you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do,” Timothy said. There was a pause; Victor still didn’t release him. “Er - Victor. Pop. Come on, what’s going on?”

Timothy finally managed to pull away. Victor’s eyes were dry, but his face was full of sorrow. 

“There’s one last thing we need to talk to you about,” he said quietly. “Come on. Have a seat.”

They returned to the main room. Timothy sat on the sofa, looking distinctly worried now. Sherlock and Victor sat on either side of him. Victor started to speak, his words careful, infusing more optimism and hope into this telling of the story than he had with Sherlock. He could lean on Sherlock, and show vulnerability in front of him. But they needed to be strong for Timothy.

Sherlock was the one Timothy turned to once the words registered, disbelief on his face. “I heard you talking in the kitchen at John and Mary’s the other day. You were talking about him, weren’t you? He’s the one who’s got ALL.”

Sherlock could only nod, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He had managed to convince himself that Timothy hadn’t overheard their conversation - or hadn’t been bright enough to put it together. He should have known better. 

“You knew,” Timothy hissed at him. “All this time, you knew, and you didn’t say _anything_ -”

“Tim -” Victor started, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. 

Timothy wrenched away from Victor’s grip. He got to his feet and strode wordlessly across the room to the door, which he banged shut behind himself before mounting the stairs quickly to his room.

Victor looked dejected, and misery was etched into the lines of his face.

“He’ll come around,” Sherlock said bracingly. “He’s scared.”

“So am I,” Victor said quietly, his voice raw, and Sherlock’s heart ached.

“Do you want me to go talk to him?”

Victor shook his head. “No. I’m the one who kept it secret. You break it, you need to fix it, right?”

He attempted a wry smile, but it faltered. He pushed himself to his feet then and went up the stairs to Timothy’s room.

\----

Sherlock was smoking out on the balcony.

He had indulged in the habit more frequently over the years, as it was the only vice he had left once he had given up the drink. He tried to be discreet about it, though, and tended to only smoke outside and when Victor wasn’t around. This evening, though, was different. Victor and Timothy had been upstairs for almost an hour now, and Sherlock was itching to go eavesdrop – or even to drop in uninvited on the conversation. But he knew that this was something that Victor wanted to handle alone, that he felt like he _needed_ to handle alone. And though Sherlock couldn’t understand the reasoning behind that, he cared about Victor enough to respect his wishes in this area.

So Sherlock smoked, and brooded. He idly rubbed the thumb of his left hand over the new ring that sat on his finger. Victor had placed it there only hours before, and Sherlock could still feel the phantom press of his fingers as he held Sherlock’s hand and slid the ring into place. He shivered slightly, and it wasn’t all to do with the cool December air.

The balcony door slid open, and Sherlock turned his head to see Timothy step outside. The curtains had been drawn, but through the thin fabric Sherlock could make out a shadow moving in the kitchen. Victor, no doubt going for a cup of tea and wishing it was something stronger. Sherlock knew that pang well.

Sherlock had left the packet of cigarettes sitting out on the railing, and Timothy reached for them. Sherlock offered over his lighter, and Timothy lit up and took a long draw. It was a more practiced movement than the last time Sherlock had seen him smoke, and he didn’t cough or choke.

“Do you smoke often?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral in order to keep Timothy from going on the defensive.

“No,” Timothy said tonelessly. “Here and there.”

Sherlock nodded to himself and pocketed the cigarettes and lighter. The last time they had done this together, Timothy had been fifteen and curious, and Sherlock had reasoned that it was better that the teen try it out at home than with the questionable friends he kept at school. Victor had nearly skinned Sherlock for it when he found out, but Timothy’s curiosity, at least, had been satisfied. As far as Sherlock had been able to tell, the teen hadn’t smoked again before leaving for university.

“If it helps,” Sherlock said finally, “I only found out three days ago.”

He turned his head to look at Timothy, who was avoiding eye contact by staring resolutely at the building across from them, and added quietly, “He kept it from everyone, Tim. It wasn’t just you.”

“I want to come home,” Timothy said after a long moment. “I want to go back with you.”

Sherlock blew a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from Timothy.

“What did Victor say when you told him that?”

“Wouldn’t even let me finish the sentence,” Timothy muttered darkly. Sherlock nodded to himself. That sounded like Victor, stubborn to the last when he thought he was doing the right thing.

“If I tell you I agree with him, will that make it easier to accept?”

Timothy shook his head, his face growing tense.

“All right,” Sherlock said, trying to quickly rally. “How about this – finish out the school year here, and when you come home this summer, we’ll reevaluate the situation.”

Timothy’s lips thinned, and Sherlock could tell that he found the compromise less than ideal.

“You always take his side,” he muttered petulantly, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You’re apparently forgetting the time I nearly got my arse kicked because I let you have one of these,” he reminded Timothy. He plucked the cigarette from Timothy’s fingers and held it out; Timothy glowered and took it back from him. “Look, Timothy, the fact is, we don’t know what it is we’re dealing with yet. Victor’s going to begin treatments as soon as we return home. Then we’ll have a better idea of what – of what his prognosis is.”

“If it’s not good, I’ll lose six months of time with him by staying here,” Timothy muttered.

“And you’d rather be at home, watching him deteriorate?” Sherlock countered.

It was harsh, and he knew it. Timothy flinched, but he didn’t give the angry response Sherlock was expecting. His eyes flickered down, and he stubbed out the cigarette on the railing before tossing the butt away. When he looked at Sherlock, his eyes were shining, and Sherlock immediately regretted the words.

“Timmy,” he whispered sadly. He reached out and brushed his thumb along Timothy’s cheek, wiping away a stray bit of liquid. Timothy gave a choked huff.

“Must be worse than he’s saying,” Timothy said thickly. “You never call me that.”

Sherlock flicked his cigarette to the ground and pressed it beneath his heel. He then reached over and placed a hand on Timothy’s shoulder.

“Look at me,” he said softly, and with a shuddering breath, Timothy pushed himself off the railing and turned. “Oh, Tim.”

Timothy swiped the back of his hand across his nose and said, “It’s stupid. He’s sick, and all I can think about is what’s going to happen to me.”

“What do you mean?”

Timothy gave a choked, bitter laugh.

“I mean that I only got five years with him, and it’s not enough. It’s not _fair_.”

“Don’t write him off just yet,” Sherlock reprimanded gently. “He’s a fighter. You know that.”

“Yeah, but I’m not exactly a good luck charm, am I? What with Mum and Anthony dead and Dad in prison,” Timothy said. He sighed quietly. “It’d just be nice, you know? To have a parent actually live to see me grow up. Someone to see me graduate and get married and give ‘em lots of grandbabies. Why’s that such a bloody impossible thing to ask for?”

Sherlock reached out with his free hand and cupped Timothy’s face. 

“Listen to me,” Sherlock said quietly. “When I moved to America five years ago, that wasn’t just a promise I made to Victor - it was one I made to you, too. And when I made that commitment today, it wasn’t only a commitment to Victor. It was a commitment to you as well. I don’t presume to know what the outcome of this situation will be and I won’t insult you by pretending that I do, but I will tell you this: so long as I am alive, you will always have a home. And you will _always_ have a parent.”

He pulled Timothy to him on instinct, and Timothy went willingly. He clung to Sherlock, fingertips digging into Sherlock’s back while he fought for control, but ultimately he lost his composure. His shoulders shook, and Sherlock’s left shoulder grew damp from where Timothy was pressing his face.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said gently, trying to mimic the soothing tones that Victor adopted when he had comforted Timothy in the past, on nights when nightmares plagued him. “It’s going to be fine, Tim.”

He cupped the back of Timothy’s head with one hand, gently threading his fingers through the messy hair. He rubbed Timothy’s back with the other, and then finally wrapped the arm around him and held him tight. Timothy wept quietly for an age, and Sherlock eventually gave up trying to soothe him with words. There was nothing he could say to make this better, and nothing he could do to make it go away. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to make things better for Timothy and Victor both, but in this matter he was completely helpless. And it ached. 

Finally, Timothy drew away. Sherlock moved his hands to Timothy’s shoulders and peered at him, and then used his sleeve to dry Timothy’s face. 

“You’re freezing,” he said gently. “Go inside. Get some sleep. We can talk more in the morning.”

Timothy nodded slowly and looked to the door. Through the curtains, Sherlock could see the silhouette of Victor sitting in an armchair in the living room. Timothy hesitated for a moment, and then looked back over his shoulder as he started to move away. Sherlock waved him on. 

“I’m having another,” he said, pulling out the packet of cigarettes. “Go on.”

He watched until Timothy stopped in front of Victor’s chair, shoving his hands in his pockets as he struggled to form words, and Victor got to his feet. Sherlock turned his back on the glass doors then and turned his gaze to the darkening city, the flame of the lighter licking his chilled hands as he lit his second cigarette of the evening.

Sherlock was as numb physically as he was emotionally when he finally stepped back inside Baker Street fifteen minutes later. Victor and Timothy had moved to the sofa, where Victor was reading and Timothy was lightly dozing. His head was resting on the opposite end of the sofa and his legs were in Victor’s lap. Victor kept a hand on Timothy’s ankle, and he brushed his thumb across the sharp bone in soothing swipes. 

“You smell,” Victor said dryly as Sherlock shed his coat and draped it over the back of a chair. 

“Deal with it, husband,” he said wearily, but he stooped and kissed Victor gently on the lips before moving into the kitchen. He made himself a cup of tea and then came back out into the living room, where Timothy was stirring. Sherlock set down his mug and grabbed a blanket, which he draped over Timothy.

“When I told you to go get some sleep, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he said quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Timothy’s head. 

“Mm. Sorry, Pop,” Timothy said groggily, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. He burrowed down further into the nest of blankets and shut his eyes, a small smile curving his lips. 

“That boy can sleep anywhere,” Victor muttered. He bookmarked his page and set the book aside as Sherlock sat down next to him, squeezing into what little space was left between Victor’s body and the arm of the sofa. Sherlock draped an arm over the back of the sofa and Victor leaned against him. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Of course. I’ll make sure of it,” Sherlock said. He raked his fingers through Victor’s hair. “I love you.”

A soft smile curved Victor’s lips. “I know.”

Sherlock leaned his forehead against Victor’s and closed his eyes, savouring the warmth and closeness of his husband. This wasn’t the family he had been given, but it was the one he’d chosen.

And they would get through this.


End file.
